


Surrender

by BeneathSilverStars



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (weed), Ace Subtype: intrigued and kinky, Alcohol, Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, BDSM, Canon Asexual Character, Caretaking, Cigarette Addiction, Cis Martin Blackwood, Consensual order following, Disordered Eating, Dom Martin, Hand Feeding, Including a pause for discussion mid-scene, It/Its Pronouns For Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Jon does not smoke in the fic but he really wants to a couple of times, Leitner Books (The Magnus Archives), Lots of Negotiation, M/M, Massage, Non-consensual order following, Of the not wanting to take care of yourself type, Oral Sex, Paranoia, Penis In Vagina Sex, Picking at Skin/Injuries, Polyamory, Poor Sleep Habits, Praise Kink, Recreational Drug Use, Safeword Use, Self-Harm as a Stim, Service Submission, Service Top, Sign Language, Slow Burn, Stimming, Stoplight System Check-Ins, Sub Jon, Subspace, Switch Tim, Threesome, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Udst (unresolved dom/sub tension), Unprotected Sex, What can I say it's s2 Jon is a mess, With a side of just not liking to eat, both nonsexual and sexual, canon-typical stalking, set during s2, soft dom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28421040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneathSilverStars/pseuds/BeneathSilverStars
Summary: Jon doesn’t want to trust his coworkers. He can’t. But after being cursed by a Leitner to obey any command given to him, he might have to.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 548
Kudos: 587





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is so much longer than I meant it to be oh my god. The first outline/draft is done and I’m close to halfway through the second/final draft, at eight chapters? So I’m estimating twenty chapters total, but we’ll see! I’m planning to update once a week.
> 
> I haven’t written the final sex scenes yet so I’m not totally sure on this, but I expect Tim’s body will be referred to with the words chest, tits, and dick, and Jon’s with chest, tits, breasts, clit, labia, and cunt.
> 
> Specific content warnings will be at the end of each chapter. Feel free to let me know if there’s something else you think I should warn for, or if like, missed a typo.
> 
> Thank you so much to my lovely beta Fruity! They have truly saved y’all from my semicolon crimes.

Jon took a right at the next intersection, marking it carefully. Every time, it felt for a moment like his stick of chalk would be rebuffed, or swallowed, like the dark rough shapes of the tunnel walls were made of something yielding and sentient that did not want him to find his way out; but like every time before, the chalk scraped against ordinary rock, leaving behind a shaky white arrow. Jon let out a breath, and continued.

The tunnels were dark, twisting, inconsistent, just as strange and unsettling as he remembered. Every time he thought back to them from the cool buzzing light of his office or the warm familiarity of his flat, he thought he must be remembering them as more sinister than they truly were. They were just tunnels, after all. But every time he ventured into them again… he felt in his bones that they were something more.

Elias had told him to leave his coworkers alone. Easy enough for him to say, wasn’t it? He wasn’t the one whose predecessor had been brutally murdered. But fine, obviously Jon’s covert missions hadn’t been covert enough, good to know. He’d decided he’d just have to lay low for a bit until everyone’s worry abated, and then he could go back to investigating his suspects.

In the meantime, he had other avenues to explore.

Like the tunnels.

Theoretically, the chances of finding something down here were slim. The cops had already investigated, after all, and hadn’t found anything else of note, or so they’d said. But what if they had, and just hadn’t told him? Or what if they’d barely searched at all before shrugging and calling it a day? They weren’t invested. They didn’t realize how important it was. They didn’t believe Jon that this was life or death, even though there had already been a death! So no, Jon didn’t trust them on the matter of the tunnels.

This particular tunnel quickly turned to hallway, proportions contorting into something rectangular, rock and gravel giving way to ruined brick. There was even a door at the end. Its wood was unpainted and splintered, and its hinges only resisted for a crunching moment before swinging smoothly open.

The room was cramped, something like the size of a large closet or a small office, and the brick floor continued within. Jon’s torchlight wavered as he swept it across the back of the room. No immediate danger, just scattered chunks of brick and rock.

He took a step forward. Then another, then something brushed his hand and he jumped back, holding in a shriek as he desperately tried to shake off whatever it was that was still dangling off of him-

Cobweb. Of course. Trying very hard not to think about whether its creator was still around, he brushed the stuff off on his pants, wishing that wasn’t the only option available to him. Now that he was looking, he could see strands of spiderweb glistening in the light of his torch all across the walls and corners, as well as a few more swooping through the main space of the room. Of course.

Jon almost just left, but as he turned to do so, he saw something else - a cardboard filing box, like those that filled the archives. It was covered in dust like the rest of the room, but it was untouched by the webs.

He reached for it carefully, slid it closer to the door. Easing off the top revealed a couple filing folders, two smaller boxes stacked on top of each other, and a couple scraps of paper.

Those folders probably contained  _ statements. _

Statements which would be better off inspected in the clean and well-lit environment of his office, no doubt, so he went for the boxes first, despite his excitement. They were both nearly-plain cardboard, and when he picked one up to carefully open it, it wasn’t all that heavy.

Inside was a book. Paperback, not very thick, but a bit wider than standard. Glossy teal, with the title “Read This Book!” in a large font, raised and silvery white and friendly. The subheading underneath continued, in a darker sans-serif, “What You Should Do, And Why You Should Do It.” There was no author listed on the front cover, only more splashes of color in the form of faux-stickers. One proclaimed the book a “best-seller.” Another told the viewer to “open to discover the secrets to a stress-free life.”

A book. Jon knew better than to mess around with a book, here at the institute. Or under it. He rummaged through his bag, past backup flashlights and a first-aid kit, for his gloves: a thick pair, meant for gardening, bought at the hardware store. Once his hands were safely covered, he picked up the book, dropping its now-empty box. Then he opened it, just to the inside cover, so he could check for a bookplate.

“From the library of Jurgen Leitner,” just as he’d feared. Across from it, “Read This Book!” was repeated on the title page, same font as the cover but in black ink. Underneath that: “Find the table of contents on the next page!”

Whoever wrote this seemed to be quite enthusiastic. Jon turned the page to find the table of contents, wincing when he bent the corner slightly in his struggle to separate out one layer of paper. The book already had a broken spine and worn down corners; he didn’t need to make it any worse. He skimmed the page — a numbered list of five chapters, each labeled as “Read This Chapter!” — and then took off his gloves so he could turn the next page more easily.

The small forward was uninspiring, the usual type of drivel that happened when one tried to discuss the merits of a book without spoiling the contents. All vague promises and meaningless platitudes, assurances that the reader only needed to keep reading and then they’d be oh so amazed. In Jon’s opinion, the goal of reader retention would be served much better by just getting on with the damn book, but he didn’t skip ahead. He had always been the cover-to-cover type, no matter how much he complained.

The first proper chapter — “Read This Chapter!” he was reminded — started as such:

_ Where are you? Where are you supposed to be? Is this a good place to read a book? It can be hard to concentrate if you know you might be interrupted, after all, or even if you’re just uncomfortable. The best way to make sure you get something done is to make it easy on yourself! So make sure you’re in a good position to read, and then continue. _

Jon looked around. He was slightly surprised to find he was still crouching in front of a box in the tunnels. His torch was starting to shake with the effort of holding it up to light the pages, his knees were aching from holding position, and there were  _ spiders _ about. No, this wasn’t a good place to read at all.

He stood with a wince, gently closing the book and trying to decide where it would be safer. In his backpack, tucked away against the treacherous tunnels, but left to knock against his other things? Or secure in his arms, but vulnerable to much worse should he trip? Standing still as he tried to choose left Jon antsy; his fingers twitched to scratch at the still-healing holes in his skin, but he couldn’t, hands full of torch and book. That’s what finally decided him. He needed to get to somewhere better to read, and that would be easier with a spare hand.

Regretfully, he slipped the book into the inner pocket of his backpack, then turned to retrace his steps.

* * *

Jon vaguely noticed his assistants looking up as he entered the main office of the archives, but he didn’t pay them much mind. Perhaps his late lunch had gone long, perhaps they were just surprised he’d taken an actual lunch break at all. It didn’t matter. Jon had a goal, and he was quite close to reaching it. Although…

“Don’t disturb me this afternoon,” he instructed over his shoulder as he reached his own office door. There. That would make it easier to concentrate.

He flicked on the lights, sat in his chair, and quickly retrieved the book. Its glossy cover was even more lovely in proper lighting, even though the bulbs here buzzed at an unfortunate frequency. Today he was able to ignore that, at least; everything else melted away as he resumed the first chapter.

* * *

Three knocks at the door, and then it swung open.

“I told you I didn’t want to be interrupted,” Jon snapped, without looking up.

“Oh! Yes, sorry about that,” Martin started, wasting time on pleasantries as always, “I just hoped you’d be wrapping up whatever it was by now, since it’s the end of the workday? But it can wait for next week if you’re still busy, no big deal. Just, try not to stay too late? Go home soon?”

“Yes, fine,” Jon muttered dismissively.

Footsteps, and the door again, and then he was alone to get back to his reading. Although, he should be getting home soon, shouldn’t he? His reading could be done just as well there, if not better.

He pulled on his sweater, grabbed his bag, and tucked the book under his arm to read during the commute. The main office was already empty; Martin must have been on his way out. Jon belatedly felt a bit bad for dismissing him so out-of-hand. He’d had something to discuss, after all, had been attempting to do his job while Jon read something entirely irrelevant. Martin had said it could wait, though, so it was probably fine.

Jon idly flipped through the book as he walked to the stairs, and by the time he’d made it to the main floor, he was engrossed again. The walk to the tube station was by rote, streets and people a blur around him, and the ride itself even more so, announcements and rush hour chatter fading into a background hum. He actually nearly missed his stop. He didn’t, of course — that wouldn’t be very conducive to going home as Martin had told him — but it was a close thing, doors closing right behind him as he stepped off.

The bus ride and walk to his flat went much the same. When he finally made it inside he shuffled out of his shoes, not bothering to line them up on the shoe rack. He was nearing the end of the book after all, which was always a heady feeling, so there was no way he was putting it down for something as trivial as the routines of entering his flat.

The sun was setting by the time he got to the last paragraph, as evidenced by the fact that he had to squint to read it.

_ You did such a good job! You read the whole thing, just like you were told. Wasn’t that easy? Wasn’t that fulfilling? Don’t you regret that your time listening to me is coming to an end? _

Jon frowned. He  _ did _ always hate to reach the end of an engrossing book.

_ Well, no need to fret! There are always others to listen to. So many things to do in this world, if you only pay attention! So when you go out there, listen! And do as you’re told. _

Well. That was an odd ending. He’d been reluctant to finish reading, but now that he had, he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t put it down earlier. The entire text had been like that: overly personal, pushy, and terribly repetitive. Jon knew that even the worst stories had a tendency to draw him in, though, and that’s why he tried not to pick up new books these days. Here he was, home early, after wasting an entire half a day on it instead of doing his work. He’d have to make up for it over the weekend.

He tossed the book onto his side table and made his way back to the front door. The abandoned shoes went to their proper place between his more formal oxfords and his old doc martens, and then he brought his bag to the desk in his bedroom, scowling when it felt lighter than normal. Sure enough, opening it revealed only his laptop and the one case he’d brought home yesterday but hadn’t needed to reference this morning. Wonderful. Apparently, in his rush to keep reading, he hadn’t even thought to bring home any of the work he’d ignored.

With a heavy sigh, he set up the laptop. At least he could still get  _ some _ things done.

* * *

Monday morning, the harsh tones of Jon’s alarm woke him to cold air and a hint of dawn. He stumbled across the room to hit the glowing button and make the beeping stop, and then just stood there, shivering. Morning… Cold… he needed clothes. Right. Gather an outfit, take a shower, get dressed. His wet hair would be colder eventually, but the shower would be warmer first.

Pants, sports bra, trousers… He hesitated at the hangers in his closet. He’d bought a new shirt just the day before, but looking at it now, he couldn’t imagine why he’d done so. An overly helpful salesperson had insisted he try it on, and one thing had led to another, but… he’d never been badgered into a purchase  _ this _ bad before. The pattern wasn’t professional, and the color didn’t suit him at  _ all. _ Grumbling to himself, he moved it to the back of his closet, then decided on a respectable plain grey button-up for the day.

Showered and dressed, he moved on to breakfast, filling the electric kettle and dumping some coffee beans into the grinder.

He grabbed a granola bar while the water heated, frowning to see that it was the second-to-last in the package. And he’d  _ just _ been to the store. He should have known to pick some up; he was going through his prepackaged snacks faster now that he was bringing them on stake-outs. Too late now.

His fingers twitched at his side, and he wished he’d picked up some cigarettes as well. He’d been so out of it lately… but no. That wouldn’t help his focus. Would help his stress…. But no, he had  _ quit, _ and there was no time to stop by the store this morning. He’d gone an entire weekend without access to statements. He needed to get into work early to start making up for it.

It was cold enough that he shivered as he walked to the bus stop, despite his thick sweater. Might be about time to get out the winter coat. Only a few other commuters lingered at the stop, since no one would be leaving the shops across the street at this hour. Jon would rather not be up so early either, but he just had so much to do in his new position, not to mention all the new worries on his plate since… since the worms.

The walk to the tube was shorter, but more crowded, now that he was closer to the city proper. Not terribly so, but enough to start attracting solicitors. One young adult waved a clipboard around, demanding, “Sign your name right here to petition to save the whales!”

Jon walked up and held out his hand for a pen, which they happily gave to him, launching into their spiel. He signed the petition — first of the day, how unsurprising — and tried not to glare as he handed the pen back. Instead he walked away halfway through a sentence, which was probably just as rude, but he had places to  _ be.  _ They were lucky he had signed at all.

The tube trip itself left him jittery. He felt like he couldn’t zone out, like he was tuned into every single announcement. “Mind the gap,” the speakers would say, and he’d jump and look towards the doors, even though it wasn’t yet his stop. He traced the knit edges of his sweater, trying to calm down, but apparently today was already shaping up to be one of those days.

At least he wasn’t late; Rosie was only just unlocking the doors as Jon made it to the institute.

“It’s chilly out here,” she commented as she sorted through the keys. “Summer’s sure leaving us!”

Jon hummed noncommittally.

“You look tired. You always get here too early, Jon!” she chided. “You go make yourself a hot drink in the breakroom before you get started, at least. No need to jump right into work at this hour!”

Another hum and then Jon could get past her, flipping on lights as he went. He opened the door to the breakroom to turn on its lights as well, then went to search through the cupboards. He’d already had coffee, and Martin would be making tea eventually… There. Hot cocoa mix. It would be better with milk, but he didn’t want to raid the small amount Martin kept for tea, so he just heated himself some water and dumped the cocoa in. At least this pack had the little marshmallows, bobbing around as he stirred; nothing was worse than watery cocoa that didn’t even have the marshmallows. 

Then,  _ finally, _ into his office, with the statements he had neglected to bring home. There were just  _ so many _ to sort through. His cocoa cooled on the corner of his desk, untouched, as he set to work.

* * *

Jon needed more information to continue his notes on the case in front of him. He’d told Tim to interview a few relevant people the week before, though, so said information was hopefully just a door away. A glance at the clock showed that Tim should definitely have arrived by now, even if he’d slept in, so Jon left his office to ask him about it.

“Tim? Did you follow up on-”

Tim interrupted him with a theatrical groan. “It’s Monday  _ morning, _ Boss, I’m settling  _ in, _ don’t talk to me about work ‘till at  _ least _ the afternoon.”

Jon rolled his eyes. If Tim had stayed up too late the night before, that was his own fault, and Jon wasn’t going to humor his complaints. He’d just ask the question again.

Except, when he opened his mouth to do so, nothing came out.

Tim had already turned back to his computer, so at least no one was watching him stumble over his words, but… god, was today worse than he’d thought? He’d literally  _ just _ spoken. He knew the words he wanted to say, the shape and feel of them, they just wouldn’t  _ happen. _ He couldn’t ask Tim about his interviews. 

He also couldn’t continue his current project without the information, though, so he tried something else. “Sasha?”

She looked up from her computer. “Yeah?”

“Could you tell me what Tim learned when he interviewed that statement giver’s friends and family last week? Alison Kardoff, with the swimming pool.”

Sasha gave him an odd look. “Tim’s right there, just ask him.” She said it like it was obvious, and it was, so Jon turned to try again — and scowled when he found himself freezing up again. He just… couldn’t talk to Tim about work yet. He glanced at the clock, and it wasn’t even ten yet. So he couldn’t. He pushed up his sleeve to scratch at a barely-scabbed-over worm hole, then dropped his hand when he realized everyone was watching him.

“Tim, let me know when you’re ready,” he finally said, since that was apparently the closest he could get to asking for what he needed.

“Wait, Boss,” Tim replied, laughter in his tone, “are you taking that seriously? It was a joke, sorry if that wasn’t clear. Or wait… are you doing it to… get back on my good side somehow?” A considering pause. “Or to annoy me?”

Jon scowled. “I  _ knew _ it was a joke. I just…” He ground his teeth. “I’ll be in my office.”

“Have fun,” Tim replied with a shrug.

* * *

Jon knew that Tim hadn’t been serious. He’d known it immediately, he was sure. He used to miss out on Tim’s jokes fairly often, and he still did occasionally, but this? This one was obvious. And even if it hadn’t been a joke, Jon was his boss, so it was literally his job to make sure Tim did his job. And yet he’d felt like he had to do exactly what Tim had said.

God, it was like Jon was back in primary school, making a fool of himself by taking his teachers and classmates too literally, but too nervous about missing something sincere to err the other way. He slouched down farther in his chair, finding a scab just above his ankle to pick at. It wasn’t even like he’d been nonverbal — that would be embarrassing in the middle of a workday, but at least it was something he could understand. No, he’d just taken Tim entirely at his word, even though he was an adult and knew  _ better _ than that.

Deep breaths. Berating himself in circles wouldn’t fix anything. That had been weird, but Jon was weird, and he knew that. If he found himself in a similar situation again, then he’d worry about what to do about it, but he needed more data points to draw any sort of conclusion, and hopefully he wouldn’t be getting any. He could work on a different statement instead, and besides, he was supposed to be having fun, not working at all.

God, did he even know how to have fun anymore? He took a moment to consider. He wasn’t going to start another  _ book _ any time soon, but perhaps a puzzle… He nodded to himself and slid his paperwork out of the way to bring his laptop closer. Sudoku would be nice.

An hour later, he glanced at the time, and closed the tab even though he was only halfway through a puzzle. What was he  _ doing, _ he had a  _ job _ to do.

* * *

Three knocks, and Martin opened the door just enough to peak his head in. “Hey Jon! I noticed you haven’t had lunch yet, so I just wanted to make sure you knew it’s nearly half past two? That’s a little late even for you! Try and put that work down and eat, okay? It’ll be there even after you’ve fetched your lunch.”

Jon had actually been considering skipping lunch, still unsettled by his own strange behavior and frustrated at his lack of progress. At Martin’s words, though, his body reminded him that it was, in fact, hungry. So he set down his papers and stood up to follow Martin out. Martin beamed at him, and Jon sighed. He really did not need his subordinate to start congratulating him on taking lunch breaks, or feeling like he was the last stop between Jon and starvation. This was why Jon always waited a good twenty minutes to act on Martin’s suggestions, when he did act on them. Martin didn’t say anything, though, just kept smiling as he crossed the main office to his own desk.

Jon was two bites into his microwaved leftovers when he dropped the spoon so suddenly it audibly splashed. He’d been in the middle of something, when Martin had interrupted! He’d been on the edge of something, even, pieces just starting to slot together in his mind — and now he was in the breakroom  _ eating soup, _ thoughts completely scattered again.

He wanted to abandon his lunch entirely, but then Martin would bother him again, so he took it with him back to his office. At least he could get some work done while he ate. Staring at the papers spread in front of him, though, he could barely parse the contents, let alone find the pattern again.

What had gotten  _ into him _ today? He just kept doing every little thing that-

That anyone told him to do.

_ Fuck. _

That was ridiculous. There was no way he’d been — magically cursed, to follow orders, like some sort of middle grade fantasy novel. Of course he knew about Leitners, and the way that they could — make their readers do things — and he’d just  _ read _ one, for some reason — he’d taken off his gloves, he suddenly realized. He’d brought gloves for safety but had immediately taken them off to better turn the pages, he’d only opened the book at all to see if it was a Leitner but had barely glanced at that damning label before his attention was caught again by the title, “Read This Book!” and he  _ had. _ He’d ignored everything else in the box, returned to his office only when the book told him to, neglected his work, all for a shitty self-help paperback.

He realized he had picked an entire scab off of his cheek, and flicked it into the trash with a noise of disgust, then grabbed a tissue to dab at the reopened wound.

God, he just wanted a  _ smoke. _

Maybe he was just — in a weird mood. That happened sometimes. It wasn’t entirely out of character for him to get lost in a book, after all, even a benign one. (Never mind that he’d known this one was malicious.) Sometimes he even did as he was told without thinking about it; he was stubbornly contrary just as often, but some days he would find himself contentedly following along, and maybe that’s all this was. He’d had a rough morning, and just didn’t have the energy to argue with anyone. Maybe the book hadn’t caught him at all. Maybe this was nothing. He just had to… try it out. Prove to himself that he was still perfectly capable of purposefully making his own choices.

He stood up, swept the shredded remains of the tissue into the trash, and opened his office door.

“Martin? Could you come here for a moment?”

He was sitting down at his desk again by the time Martin entered, looking nervous, or concerned, or something like that. “Y- yeah? What do you need, Jon?”

“Close the door, please.”

Martin’s expression intensified as he did so. Probably nervous then, worried he’d been called in for a professional scolding.

“Martin…” Jon paused to resign himself to sounding ridiculous. “Martin, I know this is an odd request, but could you… tell me to do something?”

Martin’s eyebrows furrowed. Closer to concern this time, confusion, maybe judgement. “Yeah, of course, what should I…?”

“I don’t know, anything, just to… touch something, or do something small.”

“Um, alright?” He paused to consider, then continued more confidently, “Come over here and open this filing cabinet.”

Jon stood up, went over to Martin, opened the filing cabinet a crack, and froze.

Martin broke the silence after a long moment. “Jon? Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he said faintly, feeling disconnected from his voice, his body. “I just think I… I think something may have happened to me.”

“Happened to you? Jon, tell me what you mean.”

Martin’s voice was full of gentle concern.

Jon told him what he meant.

The whole story came tumbling out. The Leitner in the tunnels, the compulsion to continue reading, the things he’d found himself doing: buying clothes he didn’t want and signing petitions and not bothering Tim and stopping for lunch. All things people had directly told him to do. By the end, his fingernails were digging into his palms and he was pretty sure another worm hole was bleeding but he didn’t bother to check.

“Jon, let’s — let’s just take a second, okay? Are you sure?”

“At this point, yes, I’m fairly sure,” he ground out. “I hadn’t meant to tell you about it; I only called you in here to test it. I was going to do my best to ignore your command, and then send you right back out again either way. But…”

A moment, and then Martin got it. “But I told you to explain to me. Oh, Jon, I am  _ so _ sorry, I had no idea.”

“You didn’t know,” Jon agreed. Then hesitated. What if Martin  _ had _ known? Then he wouldn’t have needed to ask… but it still would have made sense to ask, to cover the fact that he already knew. And he hadn’t actually  _ asked _ , he’d  _ told _ Jon to tell him, which was unusual, wasn’t it? Did people usually talk like that? Jon couldn’t recall for sure, but it  _ seemed _ unusual. What if Martin was behind the whole thing? What if he’d planted the book for Jon to find, what if he was going to order Jon to follow him down into the tunnels so he could-

Martin was saying something.

Jon shook his hands out a couple times, trying to clear his head of the loud panic so he could  _ pay attention _ to the suspect right in front of him.

“W- What was that, Martin?”

“I was… asking what you wanted to do about this. I could tell everyone else to be careful?”

“No!” Jon snapped, then tried to lower his tone. It wouldn’t do to tempt eavesdroppers. “I’d much rather you didn’t. Do you realize how dangerous it is, for someone to have this kind of power over me?”

Martin looked at him. “Um, yes, I do, and that’s why I don’t want your friends to accidentally use it on you because they don’t know any better?”

“I’ll take another mess like this morning over a possible killer knowing that they could simply order me to my death!”

Martin started to say something, paused, and then tried something else instead. “Well… we don’t know for sure that’s possible? Sometimes things like this have a kind of, um, protective clause built in? Like, you have to do whatever you’re told, unless it would cause harm to yourself.”

“Martin. This is not a dungeons and dragons charm spell, I really don’t think it’s concerned with  _ combat balance. _ Even if there was a chance it would be so kind, I’d really rather not risk it! There are all sorts of less direct ways to order someone into danger.”

“Look, I just don’t know how practical it is to keep it a secret either? I won’t go behind your back and tell anyone, I’ll go along with whatever cover story you want, but Tim is already concerned about what happened this morning-”

“You three  _ talk about me?” _ Jon hissed.

“Jon,  _ yes, _ of course we discuss our boss sometimes! It doesn’t mean we’re conspiring against you! I won't tell them if you’re so opposed to it, but… you have to do  _ something _ about this. Tim and Sasha at least wouldn’t get you into too much trouble, but as far as we know, anyone can use this against you. Complete strangers, or- or people like- Prentiss. It’s not safe.”

Jon had been trying not to think about that.

“Look,” Martin continued, “what if I just stuck with you and made sure that-”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

“There’s no need to when the answer is no.”

“Why?” Martin exclaimed, clearly frustrated.

“This is  _ my _ problem, Martin,  _ I _ can deal with it. I don’t need anyone else getting involved!”

“Jon…” Martin’s frustration had turned into something worse. Pity. “It’s okay to need other people sometimes. This really seems like a situation where a little help would go a long way.”

“I said no, Martin! I don’t need anyone else! There’s too much that could go wrong!”

“Exactly! So much could go wrong, that’s why you need someone on your side! Just  _ let me help you!” _

Jon expected himself to snap at Martin again, but he didn’t. The words didn’t even form in his mind, just melted along with the rest of his rage. He was tired. He was so tired of being scared.

“Oh,  _ fuck,” _ Martin breathed out. “Fuck, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean it, um — Make your own choice about whether you want help.”

When Jon found his voice again, he said, “Get out.”

“I-”

“I was trying to make my own choice and you wouldn't let me, this is exactly why I didn’t want your help, get  _ out!” _

Martin left.

Jon stumbled back to his chair and collapsed onto it.

It had felt so simple, for a second. It would have been so easy, so painless, to just let Martin take care of it all. Maybe he’d betray Jon in the end, but at least it wouldn’t be Jon’s fault for trusting him, if he hadn’t had a choice in the matter, if Martin had forced him to.

But no, the responsibility was back on Jon, where it should be. He was so, so tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> Cigarettes: Jon briefly thinks about how he'd like to smoke to help with his stress.
> 
> Internalized Ableism: Jon isn't good at telling when people are being serious versus joking, and he gets a bit down on himself about it. He also thinks poorly of the possibility of going nonverbal (nonvocal) in the middle of the workday.
> 
> Self-harm: Jon picks at his worm wounds as an anxious stim, pulling off scabs and generally not allowing them to heal. This continues in future chapters.
> 
> Non-Consensual Orders: Both strangers and coworkers accidentally force Jon to do various things (sign a petition, take a lunch break, etc), not realizing he's cursed. For most of these Jon doesn't yet realize what's happening. One was meant as a joke, and Jon's embarrassed to have followed it. One is by someone who knows about the curse but didn't mean to say the order, and immediately rescinds it.
> 
> Stalking: Mentioned, as is canon-typical. This continues in future chapters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wahh I'm blown away by the amount of kudos and comments already!! Thank you so much for your kind words everyone!! I know I said a week in between chapters but I'm impatient and I love you guys so here, a little early!
> 
> Detailed content warnings in the end notes, all pretty typical plus a brief implication of the possibility of assault.

Jon avoided everyone for the rest of the day. Tim had sent him the results of the interviews eventually, but he hadn’t clicked on the email, feeling sick at the thought. When he had to leave his office to fetch a statement, he went quickly. Tried to ignore the looks Martin and Tim were giving him. At least Sasha acted like normal.

The ride home on the tube was just as stressful as it had been in the morning, if not more so. He was hyper-aware of every conversation around him, and now he knew why.

_ When you go out there, listen, and do as you’re told. _

Luckily, it seemed that commands obviously directed at a different person didn’t bind him; when someone snapped at their child to “Drop that, Natasha,” Jon startled but didn’t drop his bag.

He still had to mind the gap every time, though.

And the “See it, say it, sorted,” announcement… Jon knew that if he saw something that didn’t look right, he  _ would _ report it. So he tried not to look around, to reduce the chances he’d see something. But what if there was a genuine danger? What if something actually was wrong, and here he was purposefully trying to ignore it? He knew he’d been jumpy lately, but he knew he had reason, and that was  _ why _ he wasn’t looking, because if anything related to his problems did come up, the British Transport Police would be useless, but-

It was a long commute.

He didn’t even try to get anything done when he got home, just flopped into bed with his work clothes still on. Tomorrow he was going to wear headphones on the tube.

* * *

Jon brought the book with him to work the next day, taped up in layers of grocery bags and newspaper. He’d barely gotten any sleep the night before, reading articles online until he couldn’t think, but at least the headphones had worked. He’d had to turn the music up loud enough to give him a headache, but it had worked. He wasn’t forced to follow commands he couldn’t hear.

Artifact Storage didn’t officially open for another hour after Jon usually arrived, so he tried to get some work done while he waited. It was difficult, though, knowing the book was lurking in his bag. He’d barely gotten anything done by the time the wall clock finally ticked over to eight.

He felt a bit awkward, approaching Artifact Storage with his excessively wrapped book. He wasn’t sure exactly how this process went — Sasha usually interfaced with Artifacts for the rest of the Archives crew, since she’d worked there — but he tried to reassure himself that they must be used to seeing all sorts of containment methods. Better safe than sorry.

It turned out to be simple enough. The tired-looking individual stationed at the desk of the entrance room simply glanced at his parcel, asked “Something new?” and handed him a stapled packet of paperwork at his nod.

He filled out the forms quickly and sparsely. There were a full two pages available to describe effects, but he simply wrote, “Forces the reader to obey commands.” In the section for recommended containment procedures and handling advice, he checked off “Do not look at it,” and noted, “Reading the title activates the curse.”

He handed over the completed paperwork, which the secretary glanced through, and then the book, which Jon was happy to relinquish. And that was it. They went back to whatever they’d been doing on their computer, and Jon went back to the archives.

* * *

He still found it difficult to work, even with the book two floors and half a building away. He was just so unsettled. No one was giving him commands here — he was the boss, and he’d instructed his assistants not to bother him, told them he’d be doing lots of recording — but he couldn’t stop anticipating… something. Anything. His mind spun with scenarios, each worse than the last, which was  _ not _ conducive to a productive day.

At least he wasn’t planning to waste time going to his physio appointment, not with the curse.

He managed to make it to half past one without interruption, which finally came in the form of two heavy knocks. Not one of his assistants. He hesitated, but he couldn’t exactly pretend to be out, so he steeled himself and called, “Come in.”

It was Basira.

The promise of another of Gertrude’s tapes was exciting, enough so that he almost forgot his worry for a moment, but only for a moment. Once she handed him the tape, he tried to rush her out as naturally as he could, before she had a chance to accidentally force him to do something. She gave him a look on her way out, but didn’t protest.

Of course, Tim caught the door as she left and let himself in.

“Hey, Boss? Did she have any news on the case?”

“Um, no,” Jon answered, suddenly realizing that it perhaps looked odd to have a police officer visiting his office. “Nothing new, I’m afraid.”

“Then why’s she here? You on the suspect list?”

“No, I’m not.” He scrambled to think of an explanation for her presence. “She just had some questions about the Institute and the Head Archivist position.” There, simple enough. “Now, I’m rather busy, so if you could excuse me..?”

“Oh, I actually had a question about case 0022010? I was wondering-”

“Email it. As I said, I’m busy.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Right.”

He closed the door more harshly than necessary behind him, and then Jon was finally alone again.

God, this was exhausting. Conversations were already difficult, enough unspoken rules and invisible signals that he’d given up on ever getting it all right, but now? There was a new way to mess up, with worse consequences than ever, and it wasn’t even something he could control. Every moment he spoke to someone was another chance for them to effortlessly derail his life.

* * *

Wednesday he tried a lower volume, but that ended up the worst of both worlds, so Thursday he was back to starting the day with a pounding headache, and a growling stomach besides. He was out of instant oatmeal as well as granola bars, and grocery shopping was something he did  _ not _ feel up to risking.

Martin hovered all morning, obviously worried, till Jon sent him off to do some investigating. This had the added bonus of making it easier to sneak after Sasha on her lunch break without anyone noticing. He lost her trail when he had to stop and donate to a fundraiser, but he took a chance and headed the same direction as the day before, and sure enough, he caught up to her just before she reached the wax museum.

Interesting.

Yesterday he had thought she’d been out for a bit of touristing, maybe stopping by the gift shop for a friend, but what reason would she have to visit twice in a row? He’d have to come by on a weekend and see if there was anything suspicious about the place. Except… A tourist trap did  _ not _ seem like the place to be, with his curse. He’d… he’d have to figure something else out.

He headed back to the Institute before long, and when a vendor called for the crowd to try their newest sauce, Jon bought himself some plain chips as well. He even managed to choke half of them down.

* * *

The door creaked open, and Jon groaned out loud. “I told you all to stick to email today, and if you  _ have _ to bother me then at least-”

The towering figure in front of him was not one of his assistants.

“Hellooo, Archivist,” crooned the monster called Michael. Its voice echoed like it was speaking through a microphone at a karaoke bar with too many special effects, and smelled like cinnamon candies.

“What are you doing here,” Jon asked.

“Oh, nothing much… A little bird just happened to tell me you got yourself caught. Or would it be a little spider?” Michael laughed like the microphone had gotten too close to the speakers, and the candies had started to burn.

“What are you going to do to me?” Jon had known this was a possibility, but god, he hadn’t thought it would be so  _ soon. _

“Oh, no need to worry about  _ that, _ I’m not here to  _ order _ you to death. If I wanted to kill you today, it wouldn’t be something  _ nearly _ so simple.”

“Then what do you  _ want!” _

“Just to say hello,” it replied, faux-offended. “I told you before that I was interested, and I thought you sounded even more interesting now. Not my usual style, I admit, but you  _ are _ so unsure right now, and  _ that _ is delicious.” It licked its lips at that, with something that was far too angular to be a tongue.

Not its usual style… Jon wasn’t aware the creature  _ had _ a style, beyond making a nuisance of itself between unexpected bits of assistance.

“Oh, you’re still so clueless, it’s adorable! Barely an Archivist at all. You still don’t even realize what’s happened to her, do you? Other people would have done it on purpose, you know.”

“Her? Done what?”

“Well, I’m not just going to  _ tell _ you. That would ruin all the fun!”

“If you’re not here to do anything or say anything useful, then just- just stop talking and go  _ away.” _ Jon hoped it sounded like a demand, rather than begging. The pulsing colors of the room around Michael were  _ not _ helping his headache.

“You? Ordering me? Oh, how the tables turn.” It laughed again, slow like molasses, cracked like ice. “In that case… perhaps I  _ do _ have one for you, Archivist.”

Oh.

Oh no.

“Wait-”

“Close your eyes for a moment!” it ordered, and Jon did.

He felt dizzy without sight to ground him, other senses overwhelmed by the feeling of  _ wrongness _ that Michael wore like perfume. At least he was already sitting down — or, he thought he was? He couldn’t  _ tell, _ lost inside his own body. He thought he heard… movement? A shuffle, a thump. What was  _ happening- _

He found he could open his eyes again, and when he did, Michael was gone.

What in the world had Michael done to his office while Jon hadn’t been able to  _ see? _

Jon immediately went through the papers on his desk, but they all looked to be how he’d left them. His bag? It was open, but he may have neglected to close it himself, he wasn’t sure, and it didn’t seem to be missing anything.

He was trying to look behind the filing cabinets when Martin knocked, three soft taps, and then opened the door.

“Jon? Is everything alright? I just heard a lot of…”

“Yes. I’m fine. Get back to work.”

“Okay, good to hear,” Martin replied, though he didn’t sound convinced. “Just let me kn- I mean, if you want to, you can ask me, if you need help… tidying up again. When you’re done. Or if you need help with anything else?” Then Jon’s glare must have finally gotten through, because he finished up with, “Right, okay, I’ll just get back to work.”

Martin closed the door gently behind him — the proper door, the one that should be the only way to enter or exit the room — and Jon let himself collapse against the cabinet, arms around his knees. He just could not get a  _ break. _ Michael taunting him and messing with his office, and then Martin being all pushy and helpful, and the stress of this whole  _ thing _ ruining his productivity for the entire week — and it could have been so much  _ worse. _ Michael could have ordered him to do anything; Jon was lucky all it had done was make an opportunity to take or move something. But what if it had taken something important? And what had it been talking about, what hadn’t he  _ realized? _

Jon sat and rocked on the floor for a good long while before he could bring himself to stand up and clean the mess he’d made.

* * *

Friday’s troubles started with a flower seller.

Well, they started with breakfast, really: Jon had decided that he definitely needed his energy, in case Michael stopped by again or something worse, and he was still low on options, so he ended up making a proper omelette with toast. That took a bit longer than his preferred pre-prepared breakfasts, which usually wouldn’t be a problem, but he’d already let himself set his alarm an hour later than normal, after his exhausting encounter with a distorted monster. So he was in a rush as he left his flat, and the closing door slammed close on his headphones. He had an extra pair somewhere, but he didn’t know exactly where, and he definitely didn’t have time to search, so he ended up stuck commuting into town with headphones that only worked on one side.

And that’s how the flower seller at the shopping plaza across from the bus stop got him.

“- bouquet for your loved ones, they deserve it!” they were calling, as Jon got close enough to hear. “Buy a flower for yourself,  _ you _ deserve it!” So Jon found himself buying the cheapest flower available as his bus drove away.

The next one wouldn’t come for half an hour.

There was another bus stop just a five minute walk away, though, and while it would bring him on a slightly less convenient route, it ran more often and would get him to the Institute eventually. So he set off towards it.

Only to run into a street preacher.

Every time Jon thought he’d finally be able to pull himself away, there was another “Don’t ignore these warnings,” or “Hark,” and of course Jon was the kind of person who knew what hark meant. He managed to escape and make it to the other bus stop eventually, but by then it would have been faster to just wait for the first bus. (If something else even worse wouldn’t have happened there.)

He made it to the tube and even managed to grab a seat, despite the rush hour traffic. But he wasn’t quite to his stop when that dreaded announcement played:

“If you see something which doesn’t look right, speak to staff or text the British Transport Police on 61016. We’ll sort it. See it, say it, sorted.”

And wouldn’t you know it, Jon had seen something that didn’t look right.

It was just a discolored seat. Nothing worth reporting. But it didn’t look  _ right. _ And he could probably convince himself that that wasn’t what the announcement meant, that it was referring to more of an unlawful type of “not right” than an aesthetic anomaly, but — he didn’t know for  _ sure _ that it wasn’t something dangerous. What if something caustic had been spilled on it? What if it was a fake, what if someone had switched the seat out for an imperfect copy with- with spy cameras in it or something! Every theory he thought of was incredibly, ridiculously unlikely, but he’d thought of them, and if you see it… say it.

His mind was screaming that it was embarrassing, unnecessary, obnoxious, but his hands pulled his phone out anyway. His fingers shook with the strain of typing as slowly as he possibly could while he texted the goddamn British Transport Police about a fucking discolored seat. As soon as it was sent he blocked the number and then slumped back in his seat.

He was still shaking, but now it was with relief: the high of having successfully completed his task. The whole thing reminded him of trying to convince himself of the downsides of smoking while his hands were lighting another cigarette, and god he didn’t know if he’d ever craved one as much as he did right now. They were a compulsion he’d given  _ himself. _ A relief that made chemical sense.

The train’s tinny speakers announced, “Exit here for the district line to Richmond.”

So he exited.

Just as well; he’d already missed his stop.

* * *

Jon made it to the Archives at nine thirty-five, which was an hour and a half later than he’d planned on being, and a good forty minutes past the point at which he’d start making pointed comments at anyone else for being late.

His assistants stared at him as he walked in. Sasha seemed mildly surprised, Martin’s expression was indecipherable but definitely something, and Tim looked like the cat who got the cream. He waved two thumbs-up at Jon and started saying something about the gift of a little hypocrisy, but Jon ignored him in favor of getting into his office as quickly as possible. If one more thing went wrong he was going to  _ lose _ it.

* * *

Elias knocked not half an hour later, two quick taps before slipping into Jon’s office.

“Ah, Elias? What do you need?” He didn’t often bother coming all the way down to the archives.

“I noticed you were late today. Not a big deal for a one time thing, but unusual, for you. I hope everything is alright?”

Fuck. Even Elias had noticed.

“Yes, I just,” Jon scrambled for a way to explain without lying, hands fluttering at his sides. “I had some delays on the tube.”

“An hour’s worth? I suspect it was something more than construction on the underground. I have noticed you’ve been having a bit of a difficult time in general; I won’t pry, but I suggest you figure it out. I don’t think either of us would like your work performance to be continuously impacted, after all.” He paused, a finger tapping on his chin as if considering, and then smiled. “Ask Martin to help you with it. I’m sure he’d be happy to.”

Jon felt sick as the words registered.

“Of course,” he replied by rote.

“Excellent. I’ll leave you to it, then!”

* * *

Jon called Martin into his office as soon as Elias was gone. What else could he do?

“Jon?” Martin asked after a moment. “Did you need something?”

“I…” He faltered, but couldn’t pause for long. “Would you help me? With… the curse?”

Martin’s smile was immediate, soft but wide, lips parted, eyebrows high.

“Oh, Jon, of course! I was so worried when you were so late today, I couldn’t stop wondering what all might have happened to you… I hoped it wasn’t all too bad, since you seemed more annoyed than hurt, but, I’m so glad you’ve decided to do something about it! That’s wonderful.”

He seemed so genuinely proud that Jon cringed back. “Actually… Elias told me to ask you.”

The pride on Martin’s face dropped into something like despair or disgust, and Jon looked away.

“Oh,” Martin said, “of course. I won’t hold you to it, then. Forcing help onto you is the opposite of helping, so, we can just ignore this and move on and-”

“No,” Jon interrupted before he could lose his nerve, while he could still feel the last wisps of the supernatural pull to allow assistance, “I think Elias is right. I obviously can’t… It just…” The last week had been miserable. Jon couldn’t even begin to put it into words, so he simply went with, “This isn’t sustainable.”

Martin’s expression crumpled further for a moment, but he just pulled it back into something more neutral and said, “Alright then! Looks like I’ll be ordering you not to follow some orders!”

“How do we know that’ll even work, though?” Jon asked. “You’ve been able to immediately countermand things that you’d told me to do, but how do we know you’ll be able to undo someone else’s?”

“We could get someone to help us test it…?” Jon wanted to protest, but Martin hurried on before he could. “I know you didn’t want to tell the others, but you work with them every day, and if they don’t know, they might accidentally hurt you. Elias  _ just _ made you ask for my help. Sure, a command from your boss is theoretically more likely than a command from your assistants, but Sasha  _ is _ rather… confident — nothing wrong with that, of course, she just knows what she needs and she’ll ask for it directly — and then with Tim’s jokes… you’re lucky something worse hasn’t happened yet.”

Jon sighed and pulled at the loose skin on his wrists. “You’re right.”

Martin looked at him for a moment. “Alright, let’s go talk to them, then. Do you want to, or should I?”

“I can do it. I’m not helpless,” Jon muttered.

“Course not,” Martin agreed, then led the way out into the main office.

* * *

“Tim. Sasha.”

Sasha looked up from her computer after one last decisive click, and Tim finished scribbling something down before swiveling in his chair to face Jon.

“What’s up, Boss?”

“I thought I should let you two know that I’ve been cursed.”

Tim squinted at him. “Like, by an evil witch?”

“Jon,” Sasha asked, “did you go into Artifact Storage?”

“No, I found the Leitner somewhere else, thank you.”

“Oh my god, you’re serious. You read a  _ Leitner?” _ Tim stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Don’t read Leitners! You know better… than that…”

He trailed off, presumably noticing Martin’s audible wince and Jon’s gritted teeth.

“What,” Tim asked.

“First of all,” Jon answered, “it started taking effect as soon as I read the title. I took precautions as I opened it to check for a bookplate, but by then it was too late. Second, I suppose that’s not an order I’d want to go against anyway, but just in case, please tell me to… Hm. I don’t know how to go about wording this in a way that doesn’t imply the opposite, which would be extremely dangerous.”

“What?” Tim asked again.

“The book,” Jon reluctantly explained, “was styled as a self-help guide, about the importance of doing as one is told. I now find myself incapable of disobeying any order given to me.”

“Fuck,” Tim replied, dragging the word out. “You’re on some Ella Enchanted shit? For real? So if I-”

“Please,” Jon ground out, “do not test it. You will get your chance in a moment.”

“Woah, of course I- Wait. My chance?”

Jon already regretted this, but Martin stepped forward to explain. “Jon and I agreed it would be useful for me to help him out, when people unknowingly — or maliciously — give him orders. We aren’t quite sure if it works as we assume, though, so we needed a third party’s help to test it out.”

“And you chose me? I’m flattered! You know I’m always down to boss someone around.”

“Yes, well, it’s not like I had a lot of options. Please don’t abuse this.” Jon turned to Sasha as he added, “Either of you.”

“Of course not, Jon,” she replied. “I’ll be careful with my phrasing, and I’ll be here if you need anything else.”

“Yeah, of course not!” Tim echoed. “I  _ only _ do this sort of thing consensually.”

Jon rolled his eyes.

“Well then,” Martin said, “let’s get started! Jon, what kinds of orders do we need to be guarding against?”

Jon considered. “I’ve run into particular trouble with salespeople, other types of solicitors such as charity workers, and general announcements that are meant to be situational but are not phrased as such.”

“So… People telling you to buy their stuff, and like… Last call for passengers, board now?” Tim suggested.

“Yes, those sorts of things.”

“Shit, wait, I basically just said it myself, did that get you?”

Jon took stock of himself. Did he feel the compulsion to find something to board? No, not really. “Nothing. Likely the context was obvious enough; you weren’t actually telling me to do something, just listing ideas.”

“But, in the context of the train call, isn’t it also kind of obvious, that it’s meant for people who want to take the train?”

“Apparently not. I suppose it’s enough that it’s directed at the general crowd, which includes me.”

“Okay, Jon,” Martin said, “would it be alright if Tim tells you to buy a paper from him?”

Jon sighed. He was not looking forward to this, but, “If he must.”

“Jon.” Martin paused until Jon acknowledged him with a questioning hum, then continued, “He doesn’t have to. It might help, but we can always wait, or try something else, or not do this at all, if you’re not okay with it.”

Jon fidgeted under the sincerity, hands twisting together. “No, you’re right, it’s a good idea to test this out. It’s fine, I’m fine. Go ahead, Tim.”

Tim went ahead. “Papers for sale!” he announced, grabbing a couple scrap sheets from his desk as he stood. “Fine papers, only ten imaginary pounds each!” He circled around to the spare desk behind his, spread out his wares, and took post behind them. “Buy a paper!”

Jon rolled his eyes at the theatricality, but started walking over to him.

“Come back,” Martin ordered.

Jon went back to Martin. He still needed to buy one of Tim’s ridiculous papers though, so he only waited a second before heading off again.

“Jon, don’t buy the paper.”

Jon stopped, now halfway across the room, and waited. “Okay, I think that did it,” he said as he retreated back.

Tim tapped his fingers on the desk he was stationed behind. “Looks like you did listen to Martin’s over mine, but then went back to finish the first thing? But then when he directly told you not to, they just canceled out?”

“I suppose,” Jon agreed.

Martin asked, “Is it alright if Tim does it again, so I can try something else?”

Jon nodded.

“Come on folks, step right up and buy a paper!”

Jon stepped up, Martin said, “Stop,” and Jon stopped.

There were a long couple moments of Jon being stopped before Martin realized what was happening. “Oh! Jon, um, continue doing what you were.”

Jon kept walking to Tim.

“Shit, I mean, do what you were doing  _ before _ Tim told you to buy papers.”

Jon walked back to Martin to await further direction.

“Nice one, Marto.”

“Oh, shut up, I’m still getting the hang of it, this is the whole reason we’re practicing. Jon, is it alright if I preemptively tell you not to buy anything, and then try again?”

“Yes, yes,” Jon replied, waving a hand dismissively, “you really don’t need to ask every time.”

Martin frowned for a second, but then nodded. “Well, if you’re sure! Just let me know if you change your mind. Alright, Jon, don’t buy any of Tim’s papers. Tim, go ahead.”

“Heh, you’re really bossing both of us around here, aren’t you?” Then, a tacked on afterthought rather than a performance as before, “Jon, buy one of my papers.”

Jon hesitated, hand going to his other wrist for something to pick at. He wasn’t supposed to be buying Tim’s bullshit papers, but… he  _ needed _ to. Reluctantly, he headed towards Tim again.

“Don’t do it, come back.”

Jon turned around again. Getting pulled back and forth across the room was getting a bit old, but at least completing Martin’s orders left him feeling warm and sated, enough to mostly drown out the itch from abandoning Tim’s.

“Jon, do you think you’d be able to warn me, when you hear an order? This is working, but I don’t want to miss something because I looked away at the wrong moment.”

Jon shrugged. It seemed feasible enough.

Martin waved to Tim, who made his shitty pitch again. This time, as he started forward, Jon said, “Martin? I’m going to buy a paper.”

“Don’t do that.”

Jon didn’t.

“Nice,” Tim said, “Looks like that works!” He gathered up his papers to bring them back to his desk. “Y’know, seems kind of unfair though, that we had it set up so you were always  _ supposed _ to listen to  _ Martin _ instead of me.”

“Of course I’m the better person to listen to,” Martin replied, lifting his chin. “I’d recommend you do it too.”

“Oh, of course, yes  _ sir.” _ Tim threw a lazy salute to Martin, and they both laughed.

Jon shifted his feet awkwardly. “Are we done, then?” he asked, once they both seemed over their joke.

“If you think so!” Martin replied.

Right, Jon was the reason for the unconventional use of time,  _ and _ their boss. “Um, yes, we’re done. Back to work everyone.”

* * *

Back in his office, Jon decisively set aside any lines of work that would require leaving the room. He tried to tell himself it was out of self-preservation, now that all of his assistants knew about the curse, but he knew it was really out of embarrassment. Walking back and forth across the office on command like a trained dog… He wrinkled his nose at the picture that made. At least no one had called him a “good boy.” That would be incredibly demeaning, of course. Absolutely mortifying, and he was going to think about something else now.

At least it seemed like this plan would work. It would be incredibly annoying, for the both of them, for Martin to need to stick by his side at all times, ready to countermand every little accidental order — or would it be at all times? Jon couldn’t decide if he was more horrified at the idea of completely giving up his autonomy, or the idea of struggling through public transit on his own even one more time. And damn, if Martin was planning to help out as often as possible, that would probably put an end to his reconnaissance missions, wouldn’t it? Jon couldn’t just pretend he was out to buy himself a lunch when he wanted to follow someone; Martin would ask why he hadn’t asked him to escort him. That man was just too helpful.

At least he didn’t have to worry about any of it yet. He’d had his proper breakfast that had ruined the rest of his morning, so he absolutely didn’t need lunch. He could hide in here for the rest of the day and try to lose himself in his work.

* * *

Three knocks at ten past five.

“So… this is usually when I’d leave?” Martin told him, like it was a question. “But, I can hang around and wait for you? Or I could even go home and then come back for you, if you think you’ll be a while, though I worry in that case you just wouldn’t…” He trailed off with a chuckle that ended abruptly. “Though I hope you don’t feel like you’d have to, to trick me like that or something! You can always refuse my help, just tell me to leave you alone and I will, I just hope you’ll let me. Help you, that is.”

To be honest, Jon was quite tempted to take him up on the last offer. Jon usually liked to stay late on Fridays, after all. Especially after the mess this week had been, it would be nice to get some extra time in, undistracted by worry at potential interruptions. He knew he was liable to stay till midnight if not longer, though, and it seemed rather unfair to ask Martin to come fetch him at such an hour.

Another early Friday it was.

“I’ll just finish this up in a moment, Martin, and then we can go.”

“Alright, I’ll be at my desk!”

A moment ended up being closer to half an hour, but if Martin minded, he didn’t show it. When Jon finally exited his office, Martin just gathered his things and led the way out of the building.

“So… I’ll just drop you off at home?” Martin asked. “Unless you have somewhere else you need to go?

“Just home is fine. I do need to go grocery shopping at some point, but-”

“Oh, me too! Simple enough for us to go together, then.”

“Perhaps tomorrow?” Jon suggested.

“Sure! Here, do you want to tell me your normal route, so I’ll notice if you start towards something else?”

Martin didn’t know where he lived. That made Jon feel a little guilty, considering he knew where Martin lived, and had been there, without permission, but, well. Needs must. At least they’d be even now.

He described the route, and they set off, hoods up against the misting rain.

Martin was jumpy as they walked, even more so than Jon. Did he regret offering his help? Was he just not used to this route?

Finally, Martin said, “Jon?”

“Yes?”

“I know we tested if you could warn me, and you could, but… you warned me  _ while _ you were already starting to, um, obey Tim? So I’m just worried someone will tell you to do something, and I won’t be fast enough. So, I was thinking maybe, and you can absolutely say no, but-”

“Spit it out, Martin.”

Words rushing together, Martin asked, “Maybe I could order you to not follow any orders without checking with me first?”

That… seemed fine? Jon couldn’t think of any terrible unforeseen consequences, at least, but he supposed that’s what would make them unforeseen. And while such an order on its own wouldn’t prevent him from eventually following the other, he’d found with Tim that conflicting orders could at least cause a delay, so it seemed like it should work as Martin intended. “Sure,” he finally decided. “You can always countermand yourself if it goes awry.”

“Okay, here goes, then? Jon, until you get back to your house, tell me what you’ve been ordered to do  _ before _ you carry out any orders, besides this one.”

Jon nodded, and they continued, Martin looking a bit more relaxed. Jon felt a bit more relaxed as well.

And it worked.

Every time Jon was about to do some foolish thing on the word of a stranger, he told Martin, and Martin told him not to do it. It was easy. There was a bit of discomfort at putting off the newer command, but he could almost ignore it for the moment it took to warn Martin. He didn’t even have to tie himself into an anxious knot each time about whether this one was worth bothering Martin about, because the command brought the warnings to his lips automatically, and then Martin would smile at him approvingly, and Jon would no longer feel the need to worry. Martin did soon rule in an exception for the “mind the gap” announcements, deciding the warning had to be more of a bother than simply glancing towards the door, but it didn’t feel like he was correcting Jon’s mistake, or even his own. He was just refining the process.

By the time they made it to Jon’s flat, he felt better than he had in a week. He’d known the constant worrying was a drain, but he hadn’t realized quite how much until Martin took it away. Just like that. It also didn’t hurt that each time he warned Martin of a command and Martin told him not to do it, he got that little rush of self-satisfaction at a job well done.

Martin walked him all the way to his door, where they made plans to meet at three in the afternoon for their grocery run and then said their awkward goodbyes. Jon had been planning to get more work done immediately — he’d remembered to bring a fair chunk of it home, this time — but he didn’t, in the end. He just made dinner and then went to bed early. He didn’t sleep for a decent while longer, but it was raining, and the patter was nice to listen to, safe under his pile of blankets.

* * *

Shopping with Martin went… perfectly fine. Winding their way through the aisles, each grabbing what they needed for their own trolleys. Standing next to each other in line. An odd experience, but nothing objectionable. Jon hadn’t gone grocery shopping with anyone else since he was still so young that his gran couldn’t leave him at home.

Then Martin picked Jon up on Monday morning, and that was fine as well. When he’d asked when Jon usually left, Jon had given him a slightly later time than his usual — but still a bit earlier than strictly necessary. He didn’t want to be too much of a bother, but he  _ really _ didn’t want to risk being late to work again.

It was a grey, drizzly morning, but not too cold. Quiet. Jon didn’t bother with his newly-found headphones, and Martin still only needed to jump in a couple of times, for rather minor things.

When they made it to the Institute and hung up their wet coats, Martin fretted a bit about what they should do if Jon needed to fetch something from the library or go on some other inter-building errand. He suggested Jon send someone else, or ask Martin to escort him. Jon told him he’d be fine on his own, though, even promised to take his phone so he could text if he got stuck somewhere, and that seemed to mollify him.

At least he’d still be able to do  _ some _ snooping, then. Maybe a whole lunch excursion if he told Martin he’d be busy in the library for a while, but he didn’t want to go too big too soon, so he stuck to just following Sasha to Artifact Storage.

Nothing damning, but her interest in the table was absolutely worth note. He’d continue keeping an eye on her.

* * *

Jon wasted the last ten minutes of work glaring at the clock as it ticked ever-closer to five. The workday was just so short, when you arrived  _ and _ left at “reasonable” times! If it was just for a couple days, Jon could handle it but… Martin had implied he’d be walking Jon home every day.

A full grown man, and he needed a chaperone.

He tried to tell himself it wasn’t anything like his gran walking him home from school for years after it was strictly necessary because she didn’t trust him not to detour, but it sure felt similar. He supposed at least Martin would stop if told to. And Martin wasn’t there to force him to go straight home, had in fact asked the other day if Jon had anywhere else he wanted to go on the way. Why was Martin so  _ nice? _

He had to be up to something. What other reason would he have, to help Jon out like this? Surely he didn’t actually  _ want _ to follow Jon wherever he happened to fancy going. He hadn’t entirely grown out of his wanderlust, after all, and he still found himself exploring, sometimes, on the weekends, or the early mornings when he couldn’t sleep, or the occasional evenings after work — not too late, though, of course. Transitioning hadn’t really made the streets any safer, not with his hair as long as he liked to keep it.

And especially not  _ now. _ He’d been trying not to think about it, but… he probably needed to put his wanderings on hold entirely. People could be awful in the daylight too, even if not quite as often. And he was…  _ so _ much more vulnerable now.

Martin’s kindness may have been suspicious, but Jon had to admit it was also extremely helpful.

So, Jon was ready to leave before Martin even knocked, and Martin walked him home, and it was nice. Not at all like being an overprotected child. Sitting on the bus with Martin at his side, he had to admit he didn’t resent his presence at all. He didn’t feel stifled, or coddled, or condescended. He felt  _ safe. _ And that was worse than any of the others, because he could  _ not _ afford to trust anyone. Anyone could be the murderer, and he  _ knew _ Martin had a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> Implied harassment/assault and transphobia: Jon thinks about how unsafe it can be to walk around by himself, especially now with this curse, partially because he's visibly gender nonconforming.
> 
> Secondhand embarrassment: A combination of a generic safety announcement, Jon's paranoia, and the curse force him to submit an unnecessary complaint to the authorities. It's fine lol he doesn't hear back. He's also embarrassed to have his assistants know about the curse, though they're good sports about it.
> 
> Cigarettes: Jon compares the curse's compulsion to smoking and reminisces about it.
> 
> Stalking: Jon follows Sasha around, as in canon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, lovely to see you all! CWs in the end notes ofc, but nothing big this week.

Jon asked Sasha about the wax museum the next day, but she just said she’d been visiting her new boyfriend, and then managed to turn the conversation around to be about him. Concern that he’d been all the way out there, with his curse. Asking if he needed anything else. Wondering how he was handling it all. Jon answered vaguely and left as quickly as he could, not wanting to give a suspect any more ammunition.

Basira brought another tape, too, an exact week after the previous drop-off. Even though it went fine last time, Jon really almost didn’t want to let her in. He’d been jumpy all morning, and cops were  _ dangerous, _ she could kill him even without the curse — but she’d been fine so far, and she hadn’t even been involved with Gertrude’s case until it was a case, and she was helping him, she was fine. Only the same threat as anyone else, and Martin was right outside if Jon needed him to countermand something. And she was fine, so if she did tell him to do something, it probably wouldn’t even be that bad.

He called her in before he could second-guess himself again, and sure enough, the meeting was short and perfectly safe. He turned the light off afterwards, sat in the quiet darkness for a good half an hour before he was settled enough to continue working, and it was fine.

* * *

By the time afternoon started giving way to evening, Jon was ready to snap. He’d barely gotten  _ anything _ done. Going home early, coming in late, researching his coworkers, dealing with the curse; it all meant his actual  _ work _ was falling further and further behind. When Martin knocked, coat on and ready to go, Jon had to take several deep breaths before he answered, “Just finishing up.”

“Okay, I’ll be out here!”

Eventually, Martin knocked again.

“Jon? Are you about done?”

Jon almost felt guilty when he glanced at the clock and saw nearly forty-five minutes had passed, but he still replied, “I just have to finish this.” He  _ did. _

Twenty minutes later, Martin just opened the door.

“If you want to stay this late, I’d appreciate it if you let me know? So I can find something to do, myself.”

“Oh,” Jon snapped, “so you’re not just going to order me?”

“Of course not!” Martin looked at him with horror or disgust or offense for a second, then reigned it in and continued. “It’s completely your choice if you want to stay, and it’s also your choice whether I stay with you, which, I  _ don’t _ mind doing. I’d just like to know what to expect, if possible.”

God, why did Martin have to be so reasonable. Jon knew that he must look rude and immature in comparison, that he should really step up to meet Martin’s civility, but he didn’t  _ want _ to. He took another deep breath and gave it his best shot anyway. “I’m packing up now. We can go.”

Martin hovered while he did, shooting him looks. Impatient, or worried that Jon was upset with him. Which Jon  _ was, _ but he knew it was wrong of him. It wasn’t Martin’s fault that Jon was so tired.

The curse didn’t help, but even before it, he’d been tired. Even before Gertrude’s body, in fact. He’d never been very good at sleeping, and then he’d been put in charge of the disastrous archives, and  _ then _ everything else.

He knew he needed to go home and rest. But he also needed to make some progress. As he glanced around the room one last time, he almost wished Martin  _ had _ ordered him, so it wasn’t his fault he was leaving with so much undone.

* * *

Martin texted the next morning, not long after Jon woke up.

_ Martin: Hey Jon it looks like the rainy spell is over, do you want to take my bike this morning instead of the tube? _

Jon squinted at it, trying to figure out what in the world Martin was talking about. Jon’s sleepy brain conjured an old-timey illustration of a tandem bicycle with giant wheels, but that didn’t seem right. After a minute of trying to mash the image together with his mental picture of Martin, though, he realized he could just ask.

_ Jon: Bike? _

_ Martin: Oh my motorcycle! Sorry I thought everyone knew about it haha _

_ Martin: I have a spare helmet and everything and the weather’s nice, so I thought it would be nice to not have to worry about the perils of public transit today _

_ Martin: If you want? _

Jon was having an equally difficult time superimposing Martin onto a motorcycle, so he just texted back an affirmative without worrying about it too much.

Then the first cold blast of water from the shower woke him up, and he couldn’t stop worrying about it.

He’d never been on a motorcycle before. What if he messed up? If he recalled correctly, the driver of a motorcycle had to lean with the curves, so presumably the passenger did too. He knew how to ride an ordinary bike, though, so surely the basic principles of movement were the same? He hadn’t touched one since he was a child, though, and sure, riding a bike was the cliché of something one doesn’t forget, but Jon wouldn’t put it past himself to be the first. And this wasn’t even a bike, this was a motorcycle! If Jon knocked them over, they wouldn’t get away with just scraped knees and a lost baby tooth.

He actually managed to distract himself through a decent breakfast, oatmeal and toast and most of an apple, so that was something, at least. Sometimes anxiety twisted his stomach enough to rule out eating completely, and he did  _ not _ want to faint on Martin’s motorcycle.

Three knocks at the front door; Martin had arrived. Jon quickly rinsed off his bowl and spoon and went to open the door, grabbing his bag and slipping on his shoes as he went.

Martin was holding two helmets, one covered in stickers, the other just a sleek black. “Will you see if it fits?” he suggested, holding the plain one out to Jon. “Oh, and it gets pretty windy, so you probably still want a coat.”

Jon inspected the helmet for a moment, figuring out how the strap buckled and the visor flipped open and closed. He tried pulling it on, and it went fairly easily, so he secured the strap and pushed up the visor to look at Martin.

He was frowning. “Can you try shaking your head back and forth?”

Jon did, and the helmet knocked against the sides of his head.

“Hm. Bit too big,” Martin commented. “‘Spose it will do for now, though.”

Jon grabbed a coat and followed Martin down to the street, where a scraped-up navy motorcycle with orange saddlebags was parked in front of the sidewalk in a way that was possibly illegal. Martin showed Jon how to stow his bag in the tail compartment, then gestured for him to climb on.

Once Jon was settled, Martin pulled on his own helmet and hopped onto the bike in front of him.  _ Directly _ in front of him. As in directly touching, because there was no space between their bodies unless Jon leaned back uncomfortably.

Martin leaned forward a bit to get enough space to turn his head, said, “Just hold onto me, alright?” then flipped his visor down and turned his attention to starting the engine. Jon gingerly wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist. The bike spluttered, revved, then jolted a bit as Martin disengaged the kickstand. Jon’s grip tightened automatically.

Martin was solid, and warm. He pushed the bike through a sharp U-turn, then twisted the throttle. The engine rumbled louder, and they took off, faster than Jon had expected to start. He vaguely noticed the wind picking up, as Martin had mentioned, but he was shielded from the worst of it.

It wasn’t difficult at all, in the end. Jon just held on tight, and followed the lead of Martin’s body pressed against his.

* * *

Tim bought his lunches more often than the rest of them. Unfortunately, that meant there was no way Jon could follow Tim every time he left the Institute for his lunch break — but he still tried to do it occasionally, just to be safe. And today seemed like the perfect opportunity. Sasha was off speaking with IT and Martin was out gathering information, so there was nobody to see him leaving the Archives less than a minute after Tim.

Except Martin had terrible timing, and entered the Institute lobby just as Jon was going to leave it.

“Oh, Jon! Where are you going?”

Shit.

“Um, just out to lunch,” he tried.

“I’ll go with you,” Martin offered. “I packed myself a lunch, but I can just go get it and bring it with me, or, you could get carry out and we could both come back here to eat?”

Jon winced. Martin was so  _ nice. _ “No, no, it’s fine, I’ll just…”

“Jon, you need to eat!” Martin chided. “Let’s go, it’s really no big deal.”

Jon thought about going through with it just so Martin wouldn’t be suspicious. There really wasn’t anything nearby that he could stand the thought of eating at the moment, though, so he sighed and said, “I actually brought a lunch as well.”

“Ah. So you  _ were _ planning to follow Tim.”

Jon shrunk back. Was he really that obvious?

“Alright, let’s get back to the Archives,” Martin said, not worded as a command but with the ease of someone who knew they’d be listened to. Jon followed, of course.

Once they were alone in the stairway, Martin continued. “Look, Jon… You really can’t do that.”

“I very much  _ can, _ actually,” Jon grumbled, “unless you order me not to.”

Martin turned around at the stairwell to look at him. His gaze was heavy. Quietly upset. “Jon, I’m not going to do that. I shouldn’t have the power to force you into anything, so I’m not going to, not because I want to go home, not because I want you to stop being a creep, not for  _ any _ reason. It would be really, really fucked up for me to take advantage of the fact that you’re cursed. But it’s also really fucked up for you to  _ stalk _ your  _ coworkers, _ so I will do everything else I can to  _ convince _ you to stop.”

He continued down the next flight of stairs, and Jon followed. “Martin, I just- I have to  _ know- _ Just in case-”

“I get it, I know you’re scared, but Jon… You’ve been friends with Tim for ages, maybe years? Longer than  _ I’ve _ known him, at least. Why would he kill Gertrude, let alone you?” Martin pushed open the heavy door to the Archives, held it until Jon slipped through. “I swear your friends have normal reasons for doing their normal activities. Sasha visits her boyfriend, Tim is buying a lunch. You don’t have to double check these things, you really don’t.”

Of course Martin would say that, Jon thought bitterly. He had something of his own to hide.

Martin must have had the same realization, because he continued with, “I know I won’t convince you, since you don’t trust me either. But, just, remember Tim went through the worms too. He also wants a friend he can count on, not a paranoid boss. Please just… just try, Jon.”

Jon scuffed his shoes on the floor. Rubbed at a worm hole at the edge of his hip that always hurt when he took the stairs too fast. At least he was wearing dark slacks, so it wouldn’t show if it had started bleeding again. “I’ll go have my lunch,” he finally replied.

“Alright.”

Jon escaped to his office. He hadn’t quite lied to Martin earlier — he did have a couple of granola bars in his bag — but he did  _ not _ feel up to eating, so he just pulled out the next statement instead.

* * *

Jon was in knots for the rest of that day, and the next morning too, for good measure. Martin had  _ sounded _ reasonable. Of course it would seem plausible for everyone to just be going about their ordinary lives, nothing nefarious in store. But Martin was trying to convince Jon to let his guard down, and  _ that _ would just benefit anyone who wanted to hurt him. He was  _ already _ trusting Martin too much, putting his safety in his hands twice every day at least. He was getting complacent, and that wasn’t safe, especially not when he already knew Martin was lying about something! His secret could be something benign, but it could also be something very, very dangerous. However easy and nice it would be to trust him, Jon  _ couldn’t. _

He was still trying to convince himself of that when Martin knocked at half past twelve.

“Hey, I was just going to go get lunch somewhere, and I was wondering if you wanted to come with? I ran out of bread this morning so I didn’t pack anything, but I know you normally bring your lunch too, so if you’ve got it covered, that’s fine. But I just figured I’d ask?”

Jon technically still had his granola bars, but they weren’t any more appetizing than they’d been the day before. The café across the street had some fairly decent muffins, though. Jon was loath to venture out of the Institute just to get some lunch, but, perhaps a lunch with Martin would give him the chance he needed to find something out… so he agreed.

* * *

Martin got a sandwich and tea, which he made a face at but continued drinking anyway, and Jon got his cranberry muffin.

They were quiet while they ate. Jon couldn’t tell if it was the companionable kind or the awkward kind.

Eventually he couldn’t stand it anymore, and just went for it before he could chicken out.

“Martin… you said I should try and trust you. Um, all three of you, that is. So… I just have to know… What are you lying about?”

Martin quirked his head. “Huh?”

“I was… tidying up Document Storage, and I picked up a paper, and happened to see that it was a letter to your mother? And you were saying something about not wanting the others to find out you were lying about something. And I just, I  _ want _ to trust you, but I can’t when I  _ know _ that you’re hiding something…”

Hm. Martin had gone still, eyes wide.

“Jon… I… Okay, okay, just- Do you promise you won’t tell Elias?”

The look on Jon’s face must have been answer enough, because Martin sunk in his chair a bit. He didn’t seem nervous in the way he usually did when Jon scolded him, but… there was a hint of something that might be even worse. 

_ “Fine,” _ Jon conceded, “I promise I won’t,  _ if _ it’s not related to Gertrude’s murder or anything like that.”

“I lied on my CV,” Martin replied, all in one breath.

“What?” That… was not at all what Jon was expecting.

“I know, I know, it’s just, I wasn’t getting hired anywhere and I  _ really _ needed the money, so I made up some nonsense and applied here. I’m only twenty-nine, I don’t have a degree and definitely not one in  _ parapsychology. _ I don’t even know what that  _ is, _ really, but I figured if I got hired then surely I could bullshit it long enough to get  _ one _ paycheck out of it, but then I somehow stuck around long enough to actually pick some stuff up and be useful? But then I got transferred to the Archives and I had to figure it out all over again, and I know I’m not doing the best job, I’m slow and incompetent, but, I’d really,  _ really _ appreciate it if you didn’t fire me, even though you absolutely have reason to. This job pays well enough and I actually  _ like _ it.”

Jon blinked. “Even with the worms?”

“At least we don’t have a sign proclaiming that the worms are always right.”

Jon snickered at that. It tempted to turn into full blown relieved laughter, but he held it in, not wanting to break into hysterics at the café. God. Martin had been lying about his  _ job qualifications. _ That was it.

“So… do I still have my job…?”

“Yes, yes of course. To be honest, the glaring flaws in your work make much more sense now; it’s a bit impressive, actually, that you didn’t do worse, without any formal training. I’m sure you’ll be able to fill in the gaps in your knowledge even faster now that I know  _ that’s _ the issue… I think I still have a textbook on writing efficient formal reports, if that’s something you were never  _ taught…” _

Martin was staring at him. Ah, perhaps not the best time for unsolicited professional advice.

“Anyway, all that aside, there’s no way I could fire you now, not when you’re the only person at the Institute I can trust.”

Martin’s stare grew a bit watery. Shit.

Jon scrambled to figure out what he had done and how to fix it, but Martin spoke first.

“Jon, I… I’m really glad to hear that. That you trust me. You’re going through such a hard time, in several different ways, but you’ve been refusing support and I just, really hope you can let me help you now.”

“Well. I  _ have _ been, obviously. Letting you help me.”

“Yeah, but… No, yeah, you have been, and I can tell it was hard for you. It means a lot to me that you let me, even when you thought I was lying about something.”

Jon fidgeted, scraping at his ankle with his other foot. “It’s not like I had much of a choice.”

“Your options were a bit limited, true. But you still had choices, okay? The curse can’t take everything from you. You could’ve asked someone else for help, you could’ve just locked yourself away at home, you could’ve given up and just… Yeah, limited options. So maybe you didn’t actively  _ want _ my help, but you chose it over the alternatives, and I’m glad you did.”

“I suppose I’m glad I did as well,” Jon admitted. He could have done a lot worse, that was for sure.

“So! If that’s all you have to ask about…?” Martin waited for Jon’s nod before continuing, “What else have you been up to lately?”

* * *

Jon really hadn’t been up to much at all, not if he didn’t want to talk about his clandestine research ventures, but Martin was able to carry the conversation easily. He didn’t even seem to mind, as far as Jon could tell, rambling on about this and that. Apparently he’d been reading a new book — it was engrossing, but the sidekick really should have been the lead, in Martin’s opinion — and he was working on knitting a blanket — Jon hadn’t known that he knit, and now found himself wondering if Martin had made any of the sweaters he wore — and he had a neighbor whose summer flowers were all fading, but he knew from experience that they’d soon be replaced by hardier plants with colorful leaves — and wasn’t that just like Martin, to take note of the neighbor’s gardening habits. Jon didn’t even know who his own neighbors were. That did remind him of an article he’d read recently on biodiversity, though, and he ended up explaining all about why grass lawns should be replaced with diverse native plants. He didn’t even feel all that self-conscious when he realized he’d gone on long enough that it was time to leave; Martin had seemed quite genuinely interested, after all.

Back at work, Tim was amazed. “You got the boss to go out for lunch? For a whole hour? Martin? The boss went  _ out _ with you?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Jon went to get lunch with me, yes. Just like the rest of us often do.”

“Yeah but,  _ you _ went out for lunch with  _ the boss! _ Oh Martin, you scamp!”

Jon knew it was unusual for him to socialize — or take any sort of break — or even have a proper lunch — but that didn’t mean Tim needed to  _ go on _ about it. “Get back to work,” he grumbled as he passed by.

“Yes Boss!” Tim replied, sing-song.

* * *

Saturday, Martin suggested they go get groceries again. Jon would have been fine for a bit longer on what he had, but it was easier to agree than to protest, and there  _ was _ a nice farmer’s market on Sunday mornings. Sure, he’d be fine with his boxes of preserved things, but truly fresh vegetables were tempting… and Martin had suggested. So, they set a time to meet, and that was that.

He regretted it the next morning when his alarm went off, but he pushed through like he always did on workdays. Martin looked a bit sleepy when he knocked at Jon’s door, but Jon must have looked even worse, because the first words out of Martin’s mouth were, “Did you sleep at  _ all _ last night?”

“I did!” Jon replied, automatically defensive. “I got about…” He did the math and winced at the result, but said it anyway. “Two hours. Maybe two and a half.”

“Oh, Jon. You’re having that much trouble sleeping?”

“No, no,” Jon rushed to reassure him, “I was just up late doing something.”

Martin squinted at him. “Work?”

“No,” he admitted reluctantly. Perhaps he should have let Martin think it was merely insomnia.

“Jon,” Martin said, in that classic warning tone that even Jon could recognize immediately.

“Alright, alright, I was breaking into Getrude’s flat.”

“Jon!”

“Look, I trust you now, but that doesn’t mean this mess doesn’t need solving! I trust you, so I told you, so don’t…” Don’t what? Jon wasn’t sure. Don’t scold him? Don’t get fed up and order him? “Don’t make me regret it,” he settled on, looking away.

“Jon,” Martin said again, but gently this time. “I’m really glad you told me. And hey, she’s dead, better her flat than Tim’s.”

“I-”

“I know you took pictures, Jon, don’t try to deny it.” A bit of the warning tone was back, but softened just as quickly. “I get this is really hard for you, and you want to find something to help. But aren’t you working with the police? Wouldn’t they have already searched her flat?”

“Probably, but, I did find something last night! A laptop charger, which means she has a laptop somewhere, we just need to find it. The police wouldn’t have realized how meaningful that was!”

“You still could have asked them, though, to list all the meaningless things, or let you take a look around. I’m glad you found something, but there are better ways to look. I’m not mad at you, and I’m not going to order you to stop, but… could you try to find a better way, first, next time? Talk to me if you need, to any of us, we’d be happy to help. We all want you to find closure.”

_ Find closure. _ What he wanted to  _ find _ was the murderer on the loose. But… He had to admit it hadn’t even occurred to him to ask Basira about Gertrude’s flat. And the way Martin was looking at him…

“I’ll try,” Jon conceded, “to find other ways first.”

“That’s all I ask!” Martin replied with a smile.

* * *

Martin must have deemed the weather nice, because his motorcycle was waiting by the curb. He frowned as Jon put on the spare helmet — at the fit again, presumably — but didn’t say anything this time.

The ride to the market was quiet, of course, conversation impossible between the helmets and the roar of the bike. The weather really was unseasonably nice, and when Martin relaxed at a red light, his bare arms brushed Jon’s long sleeves. Jon was less anxious this time too. He knew riding passenger wasn’t difficult, and he knew he could trust Martin, and next to that, all the other dangers seemed far away.

They arrived and stowed their helmets and Martin asked, “So, should I order you to tell me when you get ordered?”

Jon hesitated. It had worked well so far, when he wasn’t meant to be listening to anyone, but if he was shopping… “It might be a bit odd if a seller tells me to swipe my card, and I immediately ask you for permission.”

Martin frowned. “True enough. Perhaps a smaller signal? Tap my arm or something, instead of telling me what it was? And… only for orders you don’t want to follow?”

“Wanting to do something is different than planning to actually do something,” Jon warned. He didn’t want to end up impulse purchasing his budget away on things he wanted but didn’t need.

“Right… orders you were planning on doing anyway?” Martin suggested.

“That should work. Go ahead.”

“Jon, during our time in this market, if you get told to do something that you wouldn’t have done without this curse’s interference, then warn me before doing it, with words and slash or by tapping me twice.”

“And slash or?”

“I was going to just say or, but I didn’t want you to tap me and get stuck not being able to speak about it!”

“Still funny to hear you say the slash out loud,” Jon replied, smiling.

Martin huffed and headed off to the collection of tents and stalls, though he paused nearly immediately for Jon to catch up. They continued to stick close to each other as they wandered, taking stock of what was available.

Jon hadn’t really thought about what he was going to make. Maybe stir fry? Or a curry? Something that would make enough leftovers for the next week’s lunches, to be worth the effort. Not anything too complicated, though, or too expensive, since the prices would be even worse at the market. Entirely reasonably so, but still something to consider…

“Jon? What’s on your mind?”

Jon startled a bit, having nearly forgotten Martin was there. “Ah, just, deciding what to make tonight. Stir fry, curry, pasta…”

Jon was ready to start explaining the pros and cons of each, but before he could, Martin said, “I think a stir fry sounds nice!” and well, that settled it. With a decisive nod, Jon led the way to go get bell peppers.

Jon ended up with plenty of vegetables for his lunches, and more for evening salads. Martin stuck to fruit, two pears and a lovely plum and a little box of blackberries. Jon often had trouble remembering to eat fruit before it went bad, but they did look delicious, so he got some berries as well.

They wandered the craft booths afterwards. Martin cooed over the pottery and a selection of knit babywear, and they both lingered by a table of hand-bound books, though neither bought any. Jon decided it was nice to have someone else there with him; it felt less like a pointless exercise in looking at things you’d never be able to justify buying, and more like… a conversation starter, perhaps. They took turns pointing out interesting things, products that were unusual or beautiful or ludicrously priced, too expensive and too cheap both. There was one shirt with a screen-printed pattern that they both agreed looked absolutely ridiculous, but in a way that Tim would definitely be able to pull off.

Eventually they wound their way back to parking, where Martin tucked their purchases in the motorcycle’s saddlebags, carefully tightening straps so the produce wouldn’t bump and bruise on the journey. When they arrived at Jon’s flat, he lingered for a moment, groceries in hand. For a moment, he considered… but no, if Jon invited Martin up for tea, Martin would have to go park his bike properly, and either leave his own groceries out in the sun or bring them up, and it would all be such a hassle.

Martin drove off, and Jon shook himself and went to put his things away.

* * *

A jaunty shave-and-a-haircut knock at Jon’s office door, and then Tim poked his head in. “Hey Boss! Wanna go get lunch with me?” Jon’s immediate suspicion must have shown on his face, because Tim continued, as if without pause, “And Martin and Sasha?”

Well… if Martin was going too, it wouldn’t be dangerous, to be around Tim and Sasha and a bunch of strangers. Jon had his leftover stir fry in the fridge, but it could stay there until tomorrow. So maybe he could give it a try — if just to make it less unusual that he’d gotten lunch with Martin the week before.

Fifteen minutes later, they were all at the Chinese place two streets over. As they had walked, Tim and Martin had chatted about how the variable wait times made it a risky choice for a workday lunch, but apparently they were counting on Jon’s presence to exempt them from any trouble should their collective lunch break go late. If so, it would work. Perhaps it would even win them some leniency for other days, since Jon hated being a hypocrite; rules should be consistent.

Lunch itself was awkward, but passible. Jon wasn’t sure how to have a casual chat with Tim after the last month, and it seemed like Tim might have been having the same trouble. Jon wasn’t sure what he had expected, when he’d started by inviting just Jon. Just Jon never tended to make for good conversation, in his experience.

Sasha was withdrawn, of course: competent and capable in the office, aloof outside of it. It was a little odd that she and Tim were such fast friends — but then, Jon was reserved as well. It had taken quite a while for Tim to draw him out of his shell, and he had never seemed troubled or put off by that. Maybe he was just generally attracted to his opposite.

That left Tim and Martin making most of the conversation, but luckily, they were both quite good at it. Martin was relaxed in a way he usually wasn’t in the office, confident and assertive, and Jon found himself following his lead. Martin would keep him safe, and Martin didn’t think there was danger. By the time they were calculating the tip — two minutes after they should have been back at the Institute — Jon felt comfortable enough to make a joke or two of his own.

* * *

Martin was out. Jon had to go ask Artifact Storage whether they had anything on file matching the description of a rug from a statement, and Martin was out. If the quiet secretary with dark hair was there he’d be fine, but Jon got the impression they mostly worked in the morning, and the afternoon replacement was… chatty.

Jon was just staring at Martin’s empty desk when Tim spoke, startling him.

“Boss? Did you need Martin for something?”

“Ah, not really, I just… was going to pop by Artifact Storage?”

“Oh I  _ see, _ you need your knight to escort you,” Tim said with a grin.

“Yes, I was planning to ask Martin to help mitigate the curse’s effects,” Jon corrected, to something that wouldn’t make him feel so… condescended to. Like he was a helpless, spoiled noble, always demanding too much-

“Well, since our Marto is out, I could help you!”

Jon stared, equal parts surprise and suspicion.

Tim looked away, mouth twisting. “Martin’s interviewing people. Might not be back for a bit.”

God, they’d been  _ friends, _ just a month or two ago. And they would be staying within the Institute…

“So you’ll have to help instead,” Jon declared. “Come along.”

Jon strode towards the stairs, and Tim’s footsteps quickly caught up behind him.

* * *

Sure enough, the chatty one was at the front desk: Damien, Jon found out, when Tim greeted him by name.

“Alright, tell me what I can do for ya!” he ordered, tapping his fingers together in anticipation.

It would have been necessary anyway, but Jon still very much resented being compelled into it. “I’m researching a certain rug: Dark red, two or three meters long, supposedly brings bad fortune upon those who enter the room in which it’s spread. I doubt you have it, but I’d appreciate your help double checking.”

“Ooh, sounds spooky! Follow me, let’s check the textiles room.”

Tim looked to Jon questioningly, but Jon shook his head, gritted his teeth, and followed. Not worth countermanding, when it was general and vague and Jon would have done it anyway. Not worth countermanding, but two in a row did  _ not _ bode well for Damien’s speech patterns.

He talked as he led the way, about his day, his coworkers, his weekend plans. Dreadful small talk, but at least Tim was there to field it. Interestingly, his “So, tell me about  _ your _ morning!” only pulled at Jon for a brief second, the urge to answer dissipating when Tim started to do so. Perhaps once the command was fulfilled by anyone, it lost its power? But Jon still minded the gap, even as countless others actually stepped over it. But then, “mind the gap” was meant for everyone in the vicinity, while Damien had been speaking with Tim. But Jon had still felt the pull for a moment. Curious.

They made it to the textiles room, and Damien started showing them around. All sorts of clothing, a decent selection of blankets, scraps of fabric too old and tattered to discern their origins; these things couldn’t  _ all _ be cursed, could they?

Unfortunately, Damien seemed entirely distracted from their original purpose. A rug wasn’t exactly going to be lost among gloves and socks and scarves. Jon tried to hurry him along where he could, but then he said “And let me tell you about  _ this _ one,” and apparently that one had quite a sordid history, because the story stretched on and on.

Jon had a job to be doing. He wanted to snap at the man, or ask Tim to make them an excuse, or just walk away and look for the damn rug himself — it probably wasn’t even here, this was supposed to be a cursory check — but none of those actions would be letting Damien tell him the story. So, no interrupting. But if he just… let Tim know he was currently being affected by the curse. That didn’t necessarily mean Tim would do something about it. Or even figure out what he meant. So he could absolutely let Damien go on while he just… reached over and tapped Tim on the arm, two times.

There, done.

Jon had never told Tim about his signal with Martin, but it still got his attention. He looked to Jon — who was digging his nails into his palms and rapidly tapping his foot on the ground — and then to Damien — who was telling the tale of yet another of the frilly apron’s victims — and then he said, “Hey, sorry to interrupt, but we really gotta get the report done on this rug, y’know how it is. Let us poke around for a second, and maybe we can come back for a tour when we’ve got a spare moment?”

Jon automatically winced at the command, though it didn’t do anything to him. Seemed to work well enough the old fashioned way, though, because Damien laughed and replied, “Sorry, sorry, I just get so excited about this stuff! Here, anything big would be in that back corner,” and Jon was finally free. For the moment.

The rug wasn’t there. The closest object in size and color was a tapestry, and the closest rug was green and barely longer than a meter.

“Ah, too bad,” Damien said, “better luck next time. Come on, I’ll show you the way back.”

Another unnecessarily compelled action. It didn’t feel quite as bad this time though, walking right next to Tim, knowing help was just two taps away.

Perhaps Jon had been too harsh on him? Not that he’d been trying to be harsh at all, just cautious, but Jon knew his words and actions rarely came off the way they were intended. And there really was no good way to frame stalking your friends and coworkers, no matter how silver tongued. He  _ knew _ it was wrong, had known the whole time, but if the price of ignoring the danger could very well be his life? Of course he couldn’t risk that.

Jon wanted to be friends with Tim again, though. He’d felt it, for a moment, out at lunch. Then another moment, here, when Tim had understood and saved him.

He wanted more of those moments, so badly, a craving clearer than hunger, more acceptable than tobacco addiction. God, he wanted to not be  _ afraid _ of everyone. At least it wasn’t quite everyone, not anymore; he’d found proof he could trust Martin. Perhaps he could find something for Tim as well?

They’d made it back to the Archives. Tim smiled, said, “How was your stand-in knight, my liege?”

Perhaps Tim truly hadn’t meant the comment as a jab, earlier. It still seemed unprofessional to play along in this game of improv, but… that didn’t necessarily mean he had to shut it down. So he hesitantly smiled back, and replied, “Acceptable.”

“Why, I couldn’t ask for higher praise! Surely tales of my great success on this day will spread throughout the kingdom!”

“Surely,” Jon agreed, dry, as he opened the door to his own office.

It closed behind him, and he was in the dark for a moment, before he flicked on the harsh fluorescents. He’d make one last push, he decided. He’d make one last push, and he  _ would _ find the piece of evidence that would let him trust Tim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> Police violence: Basira stops by, and Jon worries vaguely about how dangerous cops are.
> 
> Stalking: Referenced as is canon-typical.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh we're getting into it!! [dancing alien gif]
> 
> cws at the end, standard stuff plus a panic attack with some passively suicidal catastrophizing.

Jon had been changing his mind all morning. He was sure for a moment, ready to call Martin in to ask him, and then equally sure that he absolutely was _not_ going to do that. He was running out of time, though, and if he didn’t decide now the decision was going to be taken from him.

That’s what made up his mind, in the end: the need for it to be his decision. Doing nothing was passive, and ongoing. He could make up his mind, but he’d inevitably change it again, back and forth until it was too late and he was left uncomfortably relieved and regretful. Telling Martin, though, that was active. He only had to do it once, and then it would be done, and Martin would make sure he followed through.

So before he could dwell on it any longer, he called Martin in.

“What d’you need, Jon?” he asked, likely expecting a small errand.

“I… have a doctor’s appointment today,” Jon admitted.

“Oh! Oh, good. I was worried you were skipping them, since you hadn’t asked me to go to any with you and I know Tim still has them occasionally, but. Good. I’m glad.”

Jon hesitated, looking away. “I have been skipping them, actually. But I think I should go to this one.”

“Well,” Martin replied after a pause, “I’m glad you’re going this time!”

Jon glanced up, and then back down again. He’d been expecting Martin to scold, or at least ask. It was both very nice and a bit disappointing, that he hadn’t.

“So, when’s the appointment?”

Jon checked the clock. “In forty-three minutes.”

“Ah. Let’s get going then!”

* * *

“How’d it go?” Martin asked as they walked back to the tube. “I mean, obviously your medical information is your own confidential business and you don’t have to tell me anything, I just-”

“Yes, yes, it went fine.” He’d told the doctor to not directly tell him to do anything, to modify her words into suggestions and statements and questions, and while she hadn’t seemed entirely happy about it, she’d complied readily enough. Hadn’t even slipped up once.

“Oh! Good to hear you’re doing okay!”

Hm. Martin seemed to have assumed a more general answer. Jon didn’t _have_ to correct him, but after he’d been so kind as to escort him all this way… “The _appointment_ went fine,” Jon clarified, “but she… wasn’t very pleased with my progress. Um, how well I’m healing, that is. From the worms.”

“Oh.” 

Jon winced at the heaviness in his voice: disappointment, distaste. “I’ve been picking at them,” he explained, knowing that wouldn’t help, but committed to his decision to pay back Martin’s kindness with forthrightness. Even if it wasn’t much of a trade.

“Oh, Jon.”

“It’s fine. Some of them are healing, the ones I can’t reach as easily, and the rest will eventually. They’ll scar worse, but it’s fine, I just have to leave them alone for a bit. Perhaps I’ll try plasters again.”

“I wish I could help,” Martin said softly.

Jon almost laughed. “I really don’t think there’s anything-”

Wait. There absolutely _was_ something.

“Jon?”

“I have an idea,” Jon admitted, “but you might not like it?”

Martin looked at him expectantly.

“I told the doctor to… word things carefully, and she did. She told me, ‘you need to stop picking at them so they can heal.’ ‘You need to,’ rather than a direct order. And I thought… of all the things people have accidentally told me to do, this actually would have been a decent one. Something that would benefit from magical reinforcement. So… you could…”

“Order you to stop?” Martin completed, but as Jon had guessed, he didn’t sound happy. “Jon, I promised you I wouldn’t force you to do anything!”

“But you do already tell me to do things,” Jon pointed out. “You’ve ordered me to warn you when the curse is taking effect, and you’re always telling me to stop and stay by you.”

“That’s, that’s different! I’m just undoing other people’s commands!”

“Because I asked you to, because it’s for my own good, just like this would be!”

“I can’t- I can’t just start ordering you around Jon, that’s, it’s just-” Martin’s face was red as he stumbled over the words. He was upset. Jon had known he wouldn’t like it. “I can’t just start doing that, even- especially for your own good, then where do I draw the line, it’s-”

Jon didn’t want to interrupt, couldn’t find the words for it, but he didn’t want Martin to feel like he had to keep explaining himself either, so he tapped his arm. Just once, not the signal for the curse. Martin immediately stopped, stopped walking as well, turned to really look at him. Jon looked down. He rubbed a closed fist on his chest in apology, but Martin wouldn’t understand that, so he forced his hand back down to flutter meaninglessly at his side while he found the words in English.

“Sorry,” he finally said. “My problem, not yours.” Then he started walking again. Just half a block left till the tube station. He shouldn’t be putting this on Martin, it wasn’t his responsibility. He’d try the plasters.

The rest of the way home was quiet. Martin kept looking at Jon, in short bursts, a particular expression on his face. Jon didn’t even know where to start guessing with that one, and definitely wasn’t going to ask, so he just tried to ignore it.

* * *

On Monday, it was raining, so they took the tube and got themselves soaked. Wet umbrellas and such got left in a closet off of the lobby, of course — it wouldn’t do to track so much water into the archives — but for once, Jon wished this thoughtful policy hadn’t been implemented. Nothing to do about it, though, so he just hurried through the motions: hood down, gloves off, waterproof coat unzipped and shrugged off, all revealing more and more of the raggedy plasters that covered far too much of his body. He hoped Martin was busy with his own coat and wasn’t sparing a glance at Jon, so Jon could walk behind him and then hide in his office. He hoped Martin never stopped looking at him. He didn’t want anyone to see him and his damn worm spots, raw and open when they should’ve been nearly healed like Tim’s, covered in plasters, and not even neatly, all frayed from repeated sticking and unsticking. He wanted Martin to hold him and make it all better, take his hands in his own and keep them safe-

Jon shook himself out of his bewildering wayward thoughts and finished hanging up his coat. Martin was already waiting by the door to the archives. Jon didn’t know if he’d particularly noticed the plasters; he didn’t say anything about them at least, as they both made their way down the stairs and to their own desks.

* * *

Tuesday was dry and sunny, so they took the motorcycle despite the chill to the air. Jon kept his coat on for the first half of the day, but eventually he got fed up with the cumbersome extra layer and took it off. With the coat out of the way, he immediately pushed up his sleeves to inspect the plasters on his forearms. There was one on his wrist that just- kept bothering him- so he peeled it off, and then put it back at a different angle. It left a sticky residue behind, though, which was worse, so he ended up returning it to its original position.

Then he desperately wanted to itch an area farther up on his other arm, and it wasn’t one of his worm spots, it was just above it, so it was fine if he moved the plaster to itch at it. Except then it turned out the itch was actually on the spot after all, but he wasn’t supposed to touch it, so he just smoothed the plaster back into place. Which made it rub against the spot, for one satisfying moment. And that wasn’t _picking_ at it, it was just part of the natural process of bandaging a wound. Nothing to be done about that. So it was fine if he did it a couple more times. And then while he was moving another plaster, he saw the spot underneath was scabbed over, which was good, theoretically, but now that he’d seen it he could feel it pulling and itching and-

Ten minutes later, he pulled his sleeves back down. This wasn’t working. The plasters were such tempting targets, impossible to ignore, and then his attention would inevitably transfer and it just didn’t _work._

Jon opened his office door, just a crack, to see if the others were done with lunch yet. Sasha was at her computer, but Martin and Tim apparently weren’t back yet, so he retreated to his desk. He watched the clock, signing the alphabet to himself over and over to keep his hands busy, and when five minutes had passed, he checked again. Still no. Another five minutes, though, and there they were, chatting and laughing as they settled back down to work.

Jon quietly walked past them to the now-empty break room.

He stood by the bin and peeled off all of the plasters that were in damningly easy reach. Then he went to the sink and scrubbed at the stringy, sticky bits left behind, and he didn’t scrub the spots themselves, he didn’t, he’d carefully washed and disinfected them in the morning and he was doing this to _stop_ himself from messing with them so he didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t, just stood there gripping onto the edge of the counter instead to stop himself, but he had to finish washing up eventually and god he wanted to pick, he wanted to smoke, he wanted-

He looked up and saw that Martin was standing at the open door to the breakroom, staring at him.

Martin, Jon tried to say, but no sound came out.

“God, I am _so_ sorry,” Martin said, “I just realized I’d left some papers in here, that I’d been looking through during lunch, and- Jon, are you _okay?_ Nevermind, don’t answer that, I-”

Jon just kept looking at him. He didn’t know what else to do.

“Do you,” Martin continued, softer, “Do you still want me to order you to stop? With the...” He gestured In Jon’s direction.

Jon nodded slowly. _“Please.”_

Martin took a step closer, another, till he was right in front of Jon. Didn’t touch him, didn’t pry his hands away from where the corner of the counter was digging into his palms, just reached around carefully to turn off the sink. “Jon. Do not pick at your worm spots. Leave them alone except to care for them as recommended by your doctor, or to otherwise keep yourself clean and safe.”

Jon nodded. He could do that. _Now_ he could do that.

“Okay, will you let me know how that works for you? If I need to rescind it to change the wording, or entirely? If you need anything?”

Jon nodded again.

“Alright. Thank you.” Martin stepped back. “I’ll just, go get back to work!”

He turned and left, without even grabbing his papers.

Jon carefully pulled off the rest of the bandaid residue, using a damp paper towel with a bit of soap to get the last of the stickiness. The urge to pick at the spots was still there — he wanted the remaining bits of scab to be gone, he wanted to itch at them, he wanted to dig his fingers in — but it was… buried. He didn’t have to put his full attention into convincing himself to leave them alone, because he just knew he would, because Martin had told him to, and the curse wouldn’t let him disobey.

He used tissues to pat himself dry, since they were softer. He did small sections at a time, skirting around the worst spots, being very gentle with the rest. Then he carefully rolled down his sleeves, winced as the fabric brushed against raw wounds, and went back to his office, handing Martin his papers on the way. Maybe now Jon could finally get some work done.

* * *

The orders seemed to be a mental block, rather than a physical one. Throughout that evening and the next morning, Jon found himself occasionally brushing against his spots on accident, even subconsciously starting to touch them. But the feeling would filter into his awareness, and rather than triggering a chain of disgust and relief and shame and satisfaction that led him to pick more and more, he’d just- stop. Like starting to take a step in the dark only to bump into a cat, he’d just pull back immediately, with only a small burst of guilt that easily dissipated. An accident, caught in time, no harm done. He could just move on with his day.

Not only that, but afterwards, he’d feel the satisfaction of following the order again. He eventually started tracing his fingers between the spots, just for the shivery contentment of leaving them alone. He had to tear himself away to get his work done, but much better to be distracted by this than by making a mess of himself. And it was much less distracting, overall; by lunchtime it was a habit he could keep up subconsciously while he read, like tapping his fingers or chewing on a pen.

Lunchtime came with its own problems, though.

Jon hadn’t really had breakfast that morning. He knew from experience that if he didn’t have lunch either, he’d start getting dizzy by two or three, and that wasn’t conducive to working productively. But it was so hard to convince himself of that when he was perfectly productive at the moment; more so than he’d been in weeks, in fact.

It didn’t help that he’d brought a canned soup today. His stir fry had finally run out, and he’d neglected to make another batch of something over the weekend. Which was theoretically fine. But canned soup just did _not_ sound appealing at the moment, to the point where the thought of it made him feel a bit nauseous. He’d probably be okay once he was actually eating it, but he didn’t _want_ to, so he just kept working.

At one, Martin came by with tea, as he often did after his own lunch breaks. He placed it carefully on Jon’s desk, and asked, “Are you going to have lunch?”

“Please tell me to,” Jon replied, without thinking about it too hard.

Martin made a questioning noise.

“I know I need to eat, but I don’t want to, but I know it’ll be fine once I do, but it’s so hard to make myself, can you please tell me to? I know you didn’t want to with the spots but it’s been so helpful, and you can say no to this or anything it’s not as important and I don’t want to impose but I just-”

Then Jon cut himself off, because Martin had shushed him. Not dismissively, but like one would soothe a child — which should feel insulting in its own way, but didn’t. “Shh, Jon, it’s alright. It’s okay to ask. I do want to help you, I’m glad I’ve been able to. Go eat your lunch, Jon.”

Jon slumped with relief. He set his papers down, dug in his bag for the soup, and carefully picked up his tea. He could feel Martin watching him, as he walked to the breakroom.

He dumped the soup in a bowl and measured out the water and started the microwave. It was easy. He didn’t have to think about what he was doing, just that he was following Martin’s orders. And then it was done and he found a spoon and stirred, and sat at the table to start eating. No silent war till he finally convinced himself the obligation outweighed his taste. No dwelling on how much he resented the needs of the human body. He just ate.

The soup was filling. Still not great-tasting, but satisfying, the kind of difference that came from spending a lazy afternoon putting together a dinner for friends, rather than ordering out alone. Jon never looked forward to a routine meal, didn’t see lunch as much of a break at all, but this? This was a moment of peace in a busy day. This was rejuvenation and satisfaction. It was probably all just due to the book, but god, it was nice.

* * *

Jon was having one of those mornings. Staring into space, reading the same sentence over and over, tapping his fingers and tracing his skin and tilting his chair back and forth, trying to ignore the buzzing fluorescents. If he just really got started, he was sure he’d get into it, but he wasn’t into it enough to get started.

So, he called Martin in.

“What’s going on?” Martin asked, all gentle confidence and easy smile.

“I’m having trouble focusing on this follow-up,” Jon explained, “and I was wondering if you could help me?”

“With the follow-up? Or…”

“By telling me to focus, yes.”

Martin closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling. The opposite of a sigh. Then he asked, “First, is there something else we can do to help you concentrate? Did you eat breakfast, did you get enough sleep, do you have all the relevant material with you?”

“Yes, yes, I slept as well as I ever do, I just can’t focus this morning. The lights are so loud and my mind keeps wandering, and I know once I get started I’ll keep going, but I just can’t bring myself to get started. So… I thought…” Jon trailed off. Perhaps he shouldn’t be asking for more, so soon, for such a small and silly reason.

“Alright,” Martin answered, “of course I’ll help. Do you mind if I stick around for a bit?

Jon tapped at the desk, surprised by both the acceptance and the request. “Why?”

“If I’m going to be magically compelling you to concentrate on only your work, I’d feel better if I was here to rescind the order, in case something else comes up that needs your focus instead.”

“Oh, I supposed that makes sense. You can’t just say, ‘unless something else needs your attention?’”

“I could, but ‘need’ is subjective enough… I’d just feel better if I stayed, with a command so general and overpowering.”

“I suppose there’s no reason not to, since if it works, you won’t be a distraction. Go ahead.”

“Jon, focus on your work for the next twenty minutes, unless I call your name again.”

Martin had barely finished speaking before Jon turned to his computer and started pulling up the files he needed. He barely even noticed when Martin slipped out of the room after twenty-five minutes.

* * *

It was just past two when Martin burst through Jon’s office door, eyes wide and hands unable to keep still. “Jon I’m so sorry but I just got a call from the nursing home and I have to go — It could be nothing but what if it’s _something,_ and, if I wait till five she might change her mind and then I’ll have to just wonder, so I’m sorry but, I should go _now,_ if that’s okay — I promise I’ll make up my hours tomorrow, we can even stay late like you like to do — And I could drop you off at your flat on my way but that would be really early for you, or I could come back afterwards but it’s kind of out in the country and sometimes I end up waiting around a bit and I don’t know how long it’ll take so I could get back pretty late, and I don’t want to just leave you waiting —”

“Martin,” Jon interrupted, having finally processed what was going on. “Martin, calm down, it’s fine. Of course you can leave work, don’t worry about the hours, and you don’t need to worry about me either. I’ll figure something out.”

“Are you _sure?”_ Martin asked, face the picture of worry. “Maybe I could-”

“Yes, I’m sure. You go do what you need to do. If worst comes to worst, I can always call a taxi.”

“But, what if the taxi driver tells you to do something! Or someone in the lobby while you wait, or-”

“Hey,” Tim said, peeking out from behind Martin in the doorway, “what if I took the boss home?”

Martin whirled around. Jon dedicated himself to processing again.

“I know, I know, I’m no Sir Martin, don’t even have a cool bike. But I do have a car? Or we can take the tube, if you want, I don’t mind leaving Honey here overnight. She’s not exactly the kind of car people bother breaking into.”

A car. Or the tube. Going home, with Tim.

The prospect made Jon nervous, to say the least. But here Martin was, an absolute anxious wreck right in front of him, and Martin had been doing so much for him. More than Jon would ever be able to repay. Tim made Jon nervous, but if Martin would be reassured… Jon looked to Martin, to see what to do.

Martin was looking back and forth between the two of them, but when he realized Jon was looking back, he stopped. Closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then looked at them both again, slower. “I think you should do it,” he finally told Jon. “It’ll be helpful to have more than one person who can help you, in case emergencies come up, like this. And Tim may not be me, but he’s an alright guy, right?”

“‘An alright guy,’” Tim muttered, “I’d say I’m a bit more than alright.”

“Of course you don’t have to, though,” Martin continued, “you always have a choice. But I think it would be nice. You can even take the tube, like you do with me. Will you?”

Martin may insist Jon had a choice, but how could he say no to that? So he said yes, and then Martin rushed off to gather his things, and Tim said, “See you at five!” with a jaunty wave before closing the office door behind him.

Jon held on for a good two minutes before he accidentally thought about it, and tripped right over that thought into a panic attack.

He almost called Martin and begged him to come back, but using a phone was a bit out of reach at the moment. He considered just staying the night, but then Martin would know in the morning, and he’d feel so guilty, and making Martin feel better was the whole reason for this. He thought about cutting them all off, never talking to Tim or Martin again, spending his money on a private limo with a silent driver who wouldn’t look at him or talk to him and then staying in his house forever to ensure that no one else looked at him or talked to him either ever again. He could order groceries delivered until he was out of money and getting evicted and then he’d just die, he supposed, but at least he wouldn’t have let one of the people who might’ve killed Gertrude _escort him home._ Maybe he’d be dead either way, but he’d prefer to die of exposure to murder, probably.

Eventually, he remembered how to breathe, but it was a slow process.

It still felt awful to think about, letting Tim bring him home. But Jon knew Martin would be disappointed if Jon called it off, or even worse, he’d be understanding, and Jon would be left to berate himself for his own cowardice. Or was it carefulness? Reasonable precautions, completely inappropriate invasions of privacy, Jon couldn’t draw the line anymore. Martin wanted Jon to trust Tim, and Jon even wanted to, but he couldn’t yet, but he was so, so tired of making the wrong choices. Brushing off statements he knew might be real, ignoring Martin’s week out sick, resisting his help, asking for too much help, skipping lunches and not letting his own body heal and ruining his friendship with Tim, but what else was he supposed to do, when Tim might be-

No, no, he had to stop thinking about it. He just had to stop thinking about it. Martin made better decisions; Jon would do what he’d said. For now, he set an alarm for ten till five, and then threw himself into his work so he could forget it was coming.

* * *

Jon exited his office at four fifty-nine, since Tim always left at five on the dot. Sure enough, Tim already had his things gathered.

Tim just said, “Alright Boss, lead the way!” and then let them lapse into silence. Tim had been to Jon’s house before, back when they worked in Research together, so there was no need to ask for the route.

Tim was usually quite chatty, so it surprised Jon when the walk to the tube stayed quiet. He couldn’t say he wasn’t grateful, since he was putting all of his energy into trying not to panic, but he wasn’t sure what it meant. How did Tim feel about this? Jon’s obvious reluctance to spend time with him, the nervous tapping of his hands as he walked? Jon didn’t have the energy to spare to even try to figure it out.

They were a decent ways through the train section of the journey when Tim finally spoke, a quiet question. “Did you just hear that?”

Jon jumped a bit. “Uh, no, hear what?”

“Huh, guess not. Someone just said something, not important,” Tim said, moving his hand as if to physically brush the issue away. “That’s convenient, though, that the curse doesn’t get you if you don’t hear it. I wonder if an order in another language would affect you?”

Jon hadn’t thought about that before, so he did, for a moment. “I would assume not,” he finally answered. How could he do something he didn’t know about?

“Do you want me to try something in BSL?” Tim asked. “To test it out.”

Jon looked at him sharply. Why was he so eager to try it? But his expression seemed… benign enough. And there would be no reason for the subterfuge, if he did want to pull something.

So Jon answered honestly, as if he hadn’t just spent a minute deciding whether it would be a threat to his life to do so. “I actually know a fair bit of sign language, so that wouldn’t work, to test.”

“Oh! Nice!” Tim sat up straighter, even bouncing a bit, twisting his hand back and forth on the bar. “What the fuck, dude, you knew it all this time and never told me?”

“It didn’t occur to me to bring it up, I suppose.”

“Me neither! Damn, all this time we could’ve been talking shit about everyone in sign? Under the table in research meetings? That woulda _ruled.”_

Jon smiled, and they arrived at his stop and started the walk to the bus station, and Jon wasn’t panicking, which was nice. He just needed to not dwell on the fact that he’d been expecting to be panicking, had reasons to do so, no, it was fine, he just needed a distraction again. So he asked, “Have you been on any fun trips recently?”

“You’re the one who signs my requests for time off, _Boss,”_ Tim replied, “you’d know if I was doing anything really interesting! I did go on a little day trip last Saturday, though, did some rock climbing!” He told Jon about that, and then about a mountain he’d love to visit if he ever got the chance, and Jon hesitantly volunteered his own ideas for vacation spots, and the conversation continued all the way to Jon’s flat. Tim only had to come to Jon’s rescue one time, on the bus, and he did it casually.

Tim walked him all the way up to his door. “Shoo- I mean, if you want to, you can shoot me a text if you need anything, before Martin gets back! Or whenever!” He waved and then headed off, hands in his pocket. Jon belatedly waved back.

Once his things were away and shoes off, Jon collapsed onto his couch. That had been fine. Exhaustingly terrifying, but fine. He gave himself a good long bit of time to calm down, tracing over his arms and rocking back and forth, and then went to make himself dinner. A simple quesadilla, not the most well-rounded meal but easy and safe, after the stress of the day.

He checked his phone while he ate, and found a text from Martin, half an hour or so old.

_Martin: How did things go with Tim? Make it home okay?_

_ >It was horrible but it was fine.| _

Jon deleted it, and tried again.

_ >It was okay, we talked the whole time, I miss being friends| _

Delete.

_ >I had panic attack in my office, I alsmot called | _

No, no, he shouldn’t put that on him.

_ >Things went well enough | _

_ >Please don’t leave m| _

_ >I can’t trust him I just can’t I just can’t I j| _

_ >I made it home okay, but I prefer you. | _

_ >I made it home, Tim was fine.| _

He hit send before he could get lost in all his thoughts and incorrect words again.

_Jon: I made it home, Tim was fine._

Five minutes, ten, and Martin didn’t reply. Fair enough; Jon had taken longer. Martin was busy, and that was fine.

Jon brought his phone back to the couch and kept typing.

_ >It was very kind of you to assist me this morning. I was able to get a lot done due to your help. Would you be amenable to continuing to do so, from time to time? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or ask too much of you, so please feel free to say no or even ignore this. I just got so much done, for the first time in weeks, and my spots are actually healing now, and| _

Hm. That sentence was getting away from him.

_ > or even ignore this. However, I welcome whatever help you’re willing to give me. I was productive this morning in a way I hadn’t managed in weeks. My worm spots are also healing well, and I don’t know if I would have been able to make myself eat the other day without you| _

_ > also healing well, and it was helpful when you encouraged me to take a break for lunch the other day. So, if you’re willing,| _

No, can’t start a sentence with “so”.

_ > the other day.| If you’re willing, _

And he’d already said “whatever you’re willing.”

_ > the other day. If you’d like to continue to assist me in such ways, I’d appreciate it if you’d do so. _

He hit send.

_Jon: It was very kind of you to assist me this morning. I was able to get a lot done due to your help. Would you be amenable to continuing to do so, from time to time? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or ask too much of you, so please feel free to say no or even ignore this. However, I welcome whatever help you’re willing to give me. I was productive this morning in a way I hadn’t managed in weeks. My worm spots are also healing well, and it was helpful when you encouraged me to take a break for lunch the other day. If you’d like to continue to assist me in such ways, I’d appreciate it if you’d do so._

An hour later, Martin replied.

_Martin: I’m glad to hear Tim got you home safely!_

_Martin: And that my help has worked out for you. If you want me to help with more we can talk about it tomorrow. :)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> Skin picking: Jon is upset and self-conscious that his wounds aren't healing well. He tries to use bandaids to stop himself from touching them, but it just makes them harder to ignore.
> 
> Disordered eating: Jon thinks about how he doesn't want to eat, bc it seems unappealing and unproductive, but he knows he really should.
> 
> Panic attack with passive suicidal thoughts: Jon has a panic attack about Tim escorting him home instead of Martin. He goes through some possible worst-case alternatives, and thinks he'd rather mess up his life and presumably die than go through with it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Just lettin ya know this one ends on a bit of a down note, in case anyone would rather wait and read it along with the next chapter? It's real good though >:3c

Friday was a motorcycle day again. Jon knew the routine well enough by now: follow Martin to the bike, retrieve the spare helmet from the tail trunk and replace it with his bag, slip on the helmet and take a seat. This time, though, when Martin popped the trunk, the sporty black spare was gone. A different helmet sat in its place. It was teal, rounder in shape and decidedly smaller. Jon picked it up uncertainly.

“Um, here, so,” Martin said. “This one’s smaller so it’ll be harder to put on? But that’s good ‘cause then it won’t fall off easy either! But it’ll be a bit of a squeeze. So, the easiest way to put it on is to hold it at this sort of angle, more at the back of the head?” He held up his own helmet to demonstrate. “Then you push the front down over your face, then adjust.” He did as he’d said, pulling the helmet on, then hooking a finger under on each side. The motions were familiar, but Jon hadn’t actually paid attention to them before this.

Martin flipped up his visor and looked at Jon with an expectancy that made him feel like he was about to fail a test, but he swallowed down the anxiety and held up the teal helmet. It seemed odd that he couldn’t just slip it on, but sure enough, his automatic attempt didn’t work — his head just didn’t fit. He tried again at the angle Martin had shown him, and for a moment he thought that wouldn’t work either, but then he pushed a little harder and the helmet popped on and he was able to settle it into position.

He pushed up the visor and frowned. “My ears are bent forwards.”

“Oh, yeah, that happens, but you can just reach in and push them back.”

“It’s so tight, I’m not sure I can fit a finger?”

Martin — made some kind of noise, a cough or choked back laughter or something, it was hard to tell through the helmet — then cleared his throat and said, “Just try it.”

Sure enough, it wasn’t actually that difficult, and Jon was able to pull stray strands of hair out of his face while he was at it.

“So, how’s it feel?” Martin asked.

“Tight. It’s pushing on my cheeks?”

“Is it pressing against your cheekbones, or nose or temples or anything, or just squishy places? It’s good if it’s tight, but it shouldn’t hurt.”

Jon took a second to concentrate on each spot Martin mentioned, then reported, “No, it doesn’t hurt. It’s just odd.”

“Okay, then it’s probably good! It should loosen up a bit with use too, so the cheeks won’t always bother you like that, or if you really want to you can take out that section of the padding. If it starts to hurt or just get more uncomfortable instead of less, you can let me know and I’ll try a different style.”

Wait.

“Wait,” Jon said, “did you buy this helmet specifically for  _ me?” _

“I, um.” Martin looked away, and then back. “Well, my normal backup helmet was just way too big for you, which isn’t safe? So it only made sense to get you your own? I figured, when we don’t need to do this anymore, it would be useful to have a smaller spare anyway, just in case…”

When they didn’t need to do this anymore, right. So he  _ hadn’t _ spent the money just for Jon. That was… acceptable, then.

“Alright,” Jon replied, after what was probably too long. “I suppose we should get going now, then?”

Martin nodded, they both flipped their visors down, and then it was off to work.

* * *

Just ten minutes after Jon had made it to his office, there were three knocks at the door and Martin entered with two mugs of tea. Of course that’s what he’d been doing.

“Sorry again about yesterday,” he said, once he was sat down across the desk from Jon with a mug in front of each of them.

“It’s no problem, Martin, truly. I admit I… would have preferred your company, but things come up, and you were right that I should be prepared to find alternative solutions when you’re not available. It would be unfair of me to expect you to help me all the time.”

Martin sighed. “I wish I could have been there for you. I didn’t even end up seeing my mum. The fall wasn’t as bad as it could have been, and by the time I got there, she just wanted to rest. I suppose it was nice to get the details directly from the nurses, at least.”

“I- I’m sorry. I’m glad she’s alright.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about your text from last night?”

Right. Jon looked down at his fingers as he twirled them around each other. Martin was probably going to tell him to try and sort himself out like an adult, instead of running for help.

“What kind of assistance were you looking for, exactly?” Martin prompted.

“It’s nothing, really,” Jon replied, “you can forget I said anything, I don’t want to bother you-”

“It’s no problem at all,” Martin interrupted. “I just need you to be clear about what you’re asking me to do. I really don’t want to accidentally overstep, since um, your situation is the way it is? But that’s my only worry. I’m happy to help.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“So, you said you liked the ways I’ve helped you so far?”

“Yes,” Jon admitted. “Sometimes I know I should do something, and I want to, but it’s just so difficult… It was nice. To have that push.”

“Yeah, I bet! The order not to mess with your worm spots, it’s still affecting you?”

“Yes. I can clean and disinfect them, or touch them accidentally, but I’m forced to stop as soon as I notice. As I said, they seem to be healing quite well now.”

“To be honest, it  _ is _ a little worrying to know that the commands don’t wear off, or that if they do, it must take a long time. I’m glad this one is helping you, though! Alright, next: did you want me to start ordering you to have lunch?”

Jon hesitated. “Well… not every day. Just, on days when I really need to eat.”

Martin looked at him. “Jon. You  _ need _ to eat every day. You should always be having lunch.”

Jon traced around the spots on his wrist. They didn’t look as neat as Tim’s, probably never would, but at least they looked better than they used to.

“It’s alright,” Martin sighed, “I know these things are easier said than done. What would you define as a day when you really need to eat?”

“Um. If I didn’t have breakfast. Then I have to have lunch, to make it through the day.”

A pause. “Right. Can you tell me whether it’s one of those days when we get here in the morning? And then when it’s lunch time, I’ll tell you to go eat?”

Jon thought for a moment. “I’d prefer if I wasn’t forced to take a lunch break halfway through a paragraph.”

“Fair enough! Perhaps I could order you to have lunch when you’re done with your current task, or within the next half hour? Give you a little wiggle room.”

Jon nodded. “That would work.”

“It would work, and you want me to do it?”

Jon nodded again, and Martin nodded back with a smile. “Then I will! Now, do you often have trouble getting started in the morning, like you did the other day?”

“Not often!” Jon hurried to defend himself. “Well- sometimes it’s difficult, but I can usually power through. It’s just occasionally, it’s like pulling teeth.”

“You mentioned the lights, last time. They always bother you?”

Jon waved a hand dismissively. “They’re an annoyance, but I get over it.”

“You should put in a request to get them changed to a different kind of bulb,” Martin suggested.

Jon actually looked up at him, trying to make sure he’d heard him right. “I can’t- just tell the Maintenance Department to change the lights just for me!”

“Actually, you kind of totally can? You’re head of our department, I bet you could make much bigger changes than that, if you wanted to. And it’s important that you’re able to do your best work! I know if Sasha was complaining about the lights, you’d get them changed out right away for her. So I think it’s definitely past time for you to shoot an email to Maya about this.”

Jon wanted to argue that that was making too big a deal of nothing, but… Martin was right that he’d do it without a second thought if Sasha said they were distracting  _ her _ and giving her headaches. It still felt wrong to do it for himself, but if he thought about it as investment in increased productivity…

“If you think I should, then I will,” he finally decided. “Would you- tell me to do it, though? If that’s okay with you?”

“You want me to order you?”

Jon nodded.

“Alright. Some time during this workday, email Maya at Maintenance about the lightbulbs. And then if that doesn’t fix your focus problems, you can let me know, and I’ll give you some extra help!” Martin said. “Now, was there anything else you could use some help with?”

God, what  _ couldn’t _ Jon use help with. He was horrible at self-care, socializing, organizing his own life, everything, and he couldn’t put everything on Martin. “What do you think?” he finally asked.

“Well… I know you usually don’t get enough sleep?”

Jon immediately wanted to go on the defensive again — he didn’t want Martin to think he was a  _ mess _ — but he was, so he took a deep breath and admitted, “Perhaps not.”

“I could help you with that. I don’t want to just, assign you a bedtime, since there are always exceptions, but maybe limits on certain activities? What are you usually doing when you’re up late?”

“Working, laying in bed thinking, reading articles on my phone, going out to, um, places…”

“Places. Right. Well, perhaps no work or ‘going out to places’ past a certain time… No, no, you don’t need to get stuck rushing home like Cinderella. Maybe if you just let me know, when you’re up late? And I can give more specific orders as needed?”

“I don’t know if texts have the same effect. I haven’t been caught by every written ad I’ve seen, but of course the original book was written, so written versus spoken can’t be the only difference, unless it’s the exception because it’s the start?”

“Guess we’ll find out!” Martin replied. “When would you ideally like to be asleep by?”

“I generally try not to stay up past three. Or I suppose one would be better?” Jon amended, when he saw Martin’s expression. “Or. Or eleven,” he tried.

“We do leave for work fairly early. How about you try to sleep by midnight?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose that’s fine.”

“Jon. Only if you genuinely want this. It’s okay if you don’t.”

“I do,” Jon mumbled, nodding.

“Alright then! If you find that it’s past midnight and you haven’t slept yet and aren’t yet attempting to sleep, then text me and let me know.”

“Wait,” Jon said, “if I’m just texting you about it, that implies you’d be awake too! Hypocrite.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I fall back asleep easily.”

“So I’d be waking you up? That’s even worse!”

“Hm, sounds like you better not stay up late, then,” Martin replied, smiling.

“Ugh. No promises. You brought this on yourself.”

“Of course. I think that’s it for my ideas, have you thought of any others?”

“Um, perhaps… posture? I find it most natural to sit in ways that end up being horrible for my back. I could use a reminder to straighten up, sometimes.”

Martin considered. “I don’t want to force you to sit in ways that are  _ un _ natural for you… Suddenly having enforced perfect posture at all times probably wouldn’t feel good either.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Anything you tell me to do will feel good.”

Martin turned a bit red.

“The curse,” Jon explained, suddenly feeling self-conscious, “it makes it feel right to do as I’m told? That’s part of what worked out so well, about the spots. It’s more satisfying to avoid them now than it ever was to touch them.

“Ah, that’s. That’s convenient, isn’t it. I suppose I’ll just remind you to sit up occasionally, then?”

“Sure.”

“Alright, that’s probably enough for now!” Martin drained the last of his tea, and then continued, voice steadier. “I’d like you to let me know if there’s a problem with any of these that we hadn’t thought of, or if you just don’t want to do it anymore, alright? I’ll rescind any of them at any time, you don’t have to have a reason, just say the word. It’s important that you don’t hesitate to tell me if you’re done, or something’s wrong. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jon answered, then sipped at his own tea, now rather cool.

“Okay, then! I’ll just let you get back to work.” Martin collected both tea cups to leave, but paused for a moment in the doorway. “Oh, and Jon? Sit up.”

Jon sat up.

* * *

Martin came by at noon to ask if Jon wanted to be ordered to have lunch today. He thought about it for a second before answering, since he’d had a decent breakfast and hadn’t packed a lunch. But he did have a frozen meal in the breakroom, for a day when he hadn’t brought food but really needed to eat, and even though this wasn’t a “really,” he  _ did _ want to say yes to Martin. So he did, and Martin told him to go eat, sometime within the next half hour, soon as he got to a good stopping point.

Jon was already thoroughly distracted from whatever he’d been doing, so he just followed Martin out of the office and to the break room.

Sasha and Tim were both already there. A rare day, everyone taking their lunch break at the same time. Jon felt a bit self-conscious, but it would be impossible to back out now, so he didn’t bother to even consider it. He just grabbed his burrito from the freezer, pulled open the packaging, and popped it in the microwave.

“Don’t slouch,” Martin said after a moment, and Jon straightened up. He  _ had _ been stooping to lean on the counter, hadn’t he.

“Martin?” Tim said, voice high with shock. “You just…”

Jon turned to look, and Tim was looking back at him with wide eyes, fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

“Yes,” Martin answered, tone even. “I know.”

Tim turned his gaze to Martin, and then back. Jon traced his fingers over the corner of the counter.

_ “Jon?” _ Tim asked, voice a little strangled.

“Yes,” Jon sighed. “Yes Tim, it’s alright, I told him to.”

“You… told him to order you around. You, Jonathan Sims. With the curse. And the… the  _ you.” _

Martin sat down at the table across from Tim. “Small things that he knows he ought to do but has trouble remembering to stick to, yes. We had a discussion. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t read too much into it.”

Read too much into it? Oh god, was Tim going to think he was incompetent or something? Overly dependent? To be relying on Martin for such small things-

“Yes  _ sir, _ whatever you say!” Tim said, tone settled down a bit but still not quite back to his neutral cheer. “Fuck, I don’t even know who to be jealous of.”

_ Jealous _ of?

Martin leaned forward a bit, arms crossed on the table in front of him. “Oh? If you wanted me to micromanage you as well, Tim, you only had to ask.”

They looked at each other for another couple seconds, and then Martin went to go actually get his own lunch out. As soon as his back was turned, Tim raised both his hands in a victorious double fist pump, mouthing “yes” to himself.

Oh. Jon had seen that fist pump before. All the confusing things they’d just said had been about  _ sex; _ that made sense. Though, now that he had the context…

The microwave beeped and Jon retrieved his food, glad that his dark skin wouldn’t show the heat in his face when he had to turn back around.

* * *

That night, Jon curled up on his couch and planned.

He wanted to trust Tim. It hurt not to trust him, it was making them both miserable, and Jon  _ missed _ him.

He  _ had _ to find something to prove that Tim was okay. Then Jon could feel safe, and they could be friends again. And then he could find something for Sasha, and he’d be able to trust his whole team again! And then Elias!

Except, if he proved it wasn’t any of his suspects, he’d be lost without a lead.

Well. One thing at a time. First he was just going to prove it wasn’t Tim. 

His usual plan would be to check out Tim’s flat late at night, when it was dark and everyone was asleep, but he couldn’t be out too late or he’d have to text Martin about it. He couldn’t quite bring himself to regret their conversation, but damn did it make this difficult.

Perhaps earlier in the evening would work? Ten or eleven, give himself an hour? Late enough to be solidly dark, so perhaps the neighbors  _ would _ be asleep already. If Tim went out, he would likely still be out; when he’d dragged Jon to the bar a handful of times, back in the research days, Jon was always the first to flag. And if Tim hadn’t changed his habits too much in the past half a year, it was a decent guess that he would be out on a Saturday night.

Jon could arrive around ten, check and make sure Tim’s car wasn’t there. Although… what if he  _ did _ come home early. Or was just on some sort of errand, rather than out for the evening. Perhaps if Jon took up his post a bit earlier, he could start looking around as soon as Tim left? So even if he was only gone for a short while, Jon would already have been in and out.

He was planning to actually break in, then. He hadn’t quite thought it to himself until that moment, but that did seem to be where his plans were headed. He felt a bit guilty, breaking into a friend’s flat… but that’s  _ why _ he was doing it. So they could be friends again.

Tomorrow, then. He’d arrive around sunset, and watch for Tim to leave.

* * *

Saturday afternoon, Jon dressed in nondescript clothing — his one pair of black jeans, his doc martens, a dark hoodie, his coat, a beanie — and went to Tim’s house. The sun set as he traveled; winter was truly a horrible time of year. When he arrived, he found a bench to sit on, in view of Tim’s door, and then pulled out his phone. That was normal, right? Sitting on a bench, playing phone games, perhaps waiting for someone. Which he was, in a way.

He was too nervous to actually play anything. He just opened and closed various apps without paying attention, entirely focused on the building across the street. Every time he heard the faint sound of a door opening and closing, he jumped, but each time, it wasn’t Tim.

And then it was.

Jon quickly looked back down at his phone. Opened his camera, so he could watch Tim while appearing to be merely absorbed in a show. Tim stood at his door for a bit — for a moment Jon was worried he’d seen him, but then Tim turned and walked down the sidewalk to the parking lot.

Jon counted to twenty, and then crossed the street to Tim’s door, casually as he could. He wasn’t exactly a lockpicking expert, but Tim seemed the type to have a spare key, so Jon checked under the welcome mat. Nothing. Then he checked in the small empty flower pot. Nothing. He was about to check under it as well, but then he heard footsteps behind him and turned around and oh god that definitely looked like Tim, coming back up the sidewalk.

Jon dropped all pretenses of belonging and ran.

* * *

Jon didn’t want to risk seeing Tim on Monday, but he was an adult with a job, so he went into work anyway.

He told Martin he didn’t need help with lunch today. He tried to lay low, stay in his office and send for Martin if he needed anything, but he still caught a glimpse or two of Tim.

He did not seem to be in a good mood.

* * *

On Tuesday, Jon did have lunch. Early, even, so he could follow Tim if he went anywhere.

He didn’t. Next time, then.

* * *

Wednesday, all three of the others went out for lunch together. Martin invited Jon, but he said no; he’d learn much more from an empty office than a group outing. Tim obviously hadn’t wanted Martin to invite Jon, anyway, glaring as the two of them spoke and then muttering something to Martin as they left.

Jon went through Tim’s desk. Musty spare gym clothes, stacks of old notes, crumpled origami and chewed up pencils. He checked all the paper for clues: unexplained notes to self, or maybe some sort of cypher. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, but whatever it was, Jon eventually admitted it must not be in his desk.

He searched Sasha’s next, but only got through a cursory inspection before he heard footsteps on the stairs and had to retreat.

* * *

Apparently he’d gotten sloppy in his rush, because Sasha confronted him about it the next day. He tried to play it off like he’d been looking for a certain file, but it was a frustrating situation. He hadn’t found anything  _ and _ he’d been caught. He really needed to be more careful.

He was sure  _ everyone _ was looking at him when he had to leave the office for a moment that afternoon.

At least it was a warm day for November, so Jon could just lean up against Martin on the motorcycle on the way home. Much better than standing next to him on the tube, trying to avoid the judgement on his face. When they arrived at Jon’s flat, he didn’t even wait for Martin to cut the engine, just hopped off and traded helmet for bag as quickly as he could.

Inside, he hung up his coat and lined up his shoes and then paced.

There had to be  _ something _ he could find on Tim.

He wanted to dig into his spots so badly, but he couldn’t. He tried chewing on his fingernails instead, but he kept them too short, for that exact reason; he always regretted it, when he ended up with ragged, unsanitary nails. Eventually he stalked to the kitchen and dug through his cupboards, till he found a bag of caramels, probably from the previous halloween. This year, he wouldn’t have even noticed the holiday pass by, if it hadn’t been for the influx of joke statements.

He went through the whole bag of caramels that evening, continuing even after he was thoroughly sick of the taste because he needed to bite, needed to tear into something and destroy it.

He wanted to go to Tim’s house again, but it was nearing midnight. God damn fucking curse. He didn’t need Martin’s help taking care of himself, he needed answers, and he was going to get them. There were other ways to find information, he reminded himself, pulling out his laptop. He’d already researched everybody, but he’d try different searches this time.

He attempted to ignore the time, to get lost in his research like he often did, but the very attempt made it impossible. He kept glancing at the numbers in the corner of his screen, and noticed the moment they switched to 12:00.

Reluctantly, he texted Martin.

_ Jon: Still awake. _

The reply came only a minute later.

_ Martin: What’s going on, can I help? _

Jon’s resentment faded into exhaustion.

_ Jon: I don’t think so. I don’t feel like I could go to sleep now; laying in bed awake would just make things worse. _

_ Martin: What are you doing? _

_ Jon: Researching; not anything for work. _

Two sentences with semicolons in a row. Jon frowned, but it was too late to fix it.

_ Martin: Glad to hear you’re not overworking yourself! That’s too bad you can’t sleep but it makes sense to distract yourself in that case. It would be good to try and sleep eventually though? _

_ Martin: How about if you’re still awake in an hour, text me and I’ll order you to try to sleep? _

Jon didn’t text back, just set his phone aside and tried another search string. He didn’t text in an hour, either, reassuring his guilty conscience that he hadn’t actually agreed to Martin’s suggestion. It ended up taking another three and a half hours for him to reach the point of exhaustion where he could just fall into bed, confident he’d be asleep before he had a chance to worry.

* * *

Jon was exhausted the next morning. It was misty and windy so they took the tube, and Martin kept looking at him, the whole way to the Institute. Jon wished he’d told Martin to tell him to sleep, so Martin would be happy with him instead of disappointed.

At least he could still let Martin tell him to have lunch. He hadn’t brought anything, and didn’t really  _ want _ to waste money eating out when he had perfectly good food at home, but maybe it would help make up for his omissions the night before. It made him feel guilty again, acting like he owed Martin complete obedience when Martin himself would probably object to that framing, but it just felt right. He’d made a bad choice, and he wanted to make up for it.

So when they were about to part ways in the archives, he asked, “Would you be okay with escorting me to the café today? For lunch?”

“Of course, Jon,” Martin said, with a bit of a smile.

“Then, you can order me to have lunch, today.”

“Got it. I’ll be by around noon then!”

Jon nodded and escaped to his office.

* * *

Lunch was quiet, but not horribly so. Jon bought a sandwich, and Martin had some kind of leftover rice dish he’d heated up at the institute, and they sat outside under the awning and watched people hurry by in the drizzling rain.

The afternoon was not quiet. Jon was on his way back after a run to the library, when he heard Tim speaking so loudly that Tim likely hadn’t heard  _ him _ come down the stairs.

“-  _ assigned _ yourself to it, maybe you should supervise him a little more!”

“He can’t even go to the grocery store by himself, Tim, he needs  _ some _ privacy,” Martin replied, more quietly. Jon took another couple steps closer, carefully, to make sure he could hear everything.

“Yeah, of course, he needs his privacy so he can  _ invade _ ours. If you won’t do anything about it, maybe  _ I’ll _ just order him not to.”

“Tim! You can’t just, take advantage of his being cursed, that’s immoral!”

“What, and  _ stalking _ your  _ employees _ isn’t? You order him to do things all the time!”

“That’s different! He specifically asked me to, and it’s for his own good.”

“You’re really gonna force him to fix all of his other shit, but not this? This is for his good too, so he doesn’t get fucking arrested! But no, you only care about jacking off to Jon sitting up for you like a trained dog!”

Martin spluttered something, but Jon couldn’t hear it over the rushing in his ears. Then Tim shouted “Fuck you!” and there were footsteps and Jon didn’t know which direction they were going, so he bolted back up the stairs. Back to the library, to a deep corner of the stacks.

Martin had defended him. That was good. Tim… was very upset. Of course he was; his boss was stalking him. It made sense, was the only reasonable reaction, but it also felt so suspicious. What did Tim have to hide?

Jon knew he was being ridiculous. Tim was being reasonable, Tim was being  _ reasonable, _ but Jon needed some sort of  _ proof _ that Tim was safe or he was going to lose his mind. He was collapsing inward, falling apart, he was a mess of fear held together by unraveling strings.

It would be easier if Tim just ordered him not to. If he said, “Trust me,” and Jon did. Maybe he’d die of it, but it would be easier, for someone to pull him together with inescapable rope before his remaining threads snapped entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> Stalking: Canon-typical, but on-screen this time. Going through people's desks and planning to break into their homes, y'know, just little s2 Jon things.
> 
> Poor self-care: Again, s2 Jon. Also he eats too much candy as a stim and it hurts his tummy :(
> 
> General bad times: Jon overhears a pretty vicious argument between Tim and Martin.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all!! There's fan art!!! @dundeedeerling on twitter drew out a scene from chapter five, it's so cool, go check it out [over here](https://twitter.com/dundeedeerling/status/1354467403288047616)!!!
> 
> Oh and speaking of twitters, if you want to chat or just see what else I'm up to, you can find me @naiakiir (my main) or @sxlvxrstxrs (my nsfw, 18+ only).

Instead of dropping Jon off directly in front of his flat after work, Martin kept going till he found a proper parking spot, for once. He cut the motor and took off his helmet, and Jon scrambled to take his off as well.

Martin turned, sitting side saddle on the motorcycle, so he didn’t have to crane his head to see Jon behind him. “Not to invite myself in, but, can I come in and talk to you?” he asked, voice even.

Jon had been fighting the urge to invite Martin in for ages, but suddenly he was dreading it. This was obviously not going to be a causal cuppa. Jon wished he still had his helmet on, a tinted visor to shield him.

“I’ll go if you tell me to,” Martin continued, “but this conversation needs to happen, and I think it would be better not to have it at work where anyone could overhear.”

Did Martin know that Jon had overheard his conversation with Tim? He wished that he hadn’t, but that was his own choice to regret, the consequences of invading their privacy again and again.

Martin slid off of the bike and motioned for Jon to follow him. So Jon hopped off too, and they both stowed their helmets, and Martin led the way to Jon’s flat. Could a “come here” hand gesture activate the curse? Jon wasn’t sure; he didn’t think he would’ve been able to ignore it, either way.

Martin stood back when they got to Jon’s door, and it took Jon a moment to realize it was because he’s the one who had a key. He fumbled through his bag till he found it, and unlocked the door.

Jon slipped out of his shoes and lined them up on the rack. Martin followed suit. Jon hung up his coat in the entryway closet, and then took Martin’s proffered coat and did the same, leaving the closet door open behind him. It just seemed presumptive, to close Martin’s coat in with his own collection.

“Would you like some tea?” Jon asked, partially out of politeness, but mostly to delay.

“Sure, but I’ll make it,” Martin answered.

Jon nodded and led the way to the kitchen, retrieving his tea-making accoutrement and gesturing to the cabinet shelf of tea bags, for Martin to choose from. Then he retreated to the living room. Martin didn’t need him hovering.

Eventually the tea was done, and Martin brought it out. He gave them both a chance to take a couple sips — delicious, as always — before he started talking.

“Tim says you were at his house again. And that you went through his desk, as well as Sasha’s. What’s going on?” He didn’t look particularly upset to Jon, just serious, but Jon knew better than to rely on his own emotional readings.

“I would think it would be obvious,” Jon mumbled.

“It’s obvious  _ what _ you were doing, yes, but not the ‘why now.’ I thought you were getting along with him better?”

“I suppose you could say we were, for a bit.” Surely not anymore, but for a bit.

“What brought this on, then?” Martin asked, tone still oh-so-even, with just the barest tilt of a question.

“That’s… exactly it, I suppose. We were starting to get along alright, like before, and it was so easy.” Jon’s hands flexed on his legs, digging in on their way from flat to fists and back, though he carefully avoided a cluster of spots. “He was starting to help me out, like you, and he was doing okay — not just the time he brought me home, he helped me at Artifact Storage before that, too, when you were out — and he was doing  _ okay, _ and it was  _ easy, _ and I couldn’t let myself just fall into that! Not when he’s still a suspect! So I had to find something, some reason to let myself trust him. Like with you, you told me what the lie in the letter was really about and suddenly I could trust you and it was so wonderful and I just, wanted that with Tim too, I had to find  _ something.” _ Jon realized he was choking on his words, and let himself stop speaking.

“Oh, Jon,” Martin said. His expression had finally broken into something: a soft frown, furrowed brows. Pity.

Jon bristled at that. “Look, it’s fine, I-”

“No,” Martin replied, “it’s not fine. You’re stalking your coworkers, and that isn’t okay, for anyone. Something needs to change.”

Jon knew  _ that _ much at least. He couldn’t go on like this for much longer.

“It’s great that you want to trust Tim, that’s really some good progress, a good goal. You’re just going about it in the totally wrong way. And not just because breaking into his flat is immoral.” Martin took another sip of tea. “You said that you trust me because you found out my secret, but Jon, that wasn’t actually proof of anything. I could have a hundred more secrets that I still haven’t told you about. You didn’t trust me because I was finally above suspicion; you trusted me because you finally  _ let _ yourself.”

That… didn’t make sense. He’d wanted to trust Martin all along. Hadn’t he?

“Again, it’s great that you want to trust Tim now, that’s the real first step. But the second step isn’t ‘finding’ anything. If you continue to investigate him, you’re just going to keep second-guessing yourself. The real second step is to just… start trusting him.”

“I- but how do I know I  _ can _ trust him?” Jon asked. Jon’s hands were shaking, and he couldn’t tell if he was moving them on purpose, or if he was just trembling.

“You don’t. That’s what trust is. You never  _ know _ that someone won’t betray you. Trust is when you  _ believe _ they won’t.”

“But that’s- That’s terrifying,” Jon whispered.

“I know. There’s a lot of scary unknowns out there in the world. But it’s a lot easier to deal with when you have some friends on your side, y’know? And Tim  _ wants _ to be on your side. The reason he’s so upset about this is because he trusted  _ you. _ The two of you were friends, and he never wanted to stop being friends. But it’s not too late. You can try and be his friend, again.”

“I, I don’t know if I can, it’s  _ terrifying,” _ Jon repeated. “Sometimes I think that he’s okay, and then I think more and I just, I can’t, I can’t risk it, he could, he could, he could-”

“Jon, try to take a couple deep breaths with me,” Martin ordered. “In, out.”

It was difficult. It hurt a bit, a deep sort of ache, to not be doing what Martin had told him to do; but then, he’d only told him to try, which he  _ was _ doing. And focusing on failing at this task was still so much better than what had been hurting him before, so eventually he managed to succeed, breathing in time with Martin. In, out.

Eventually, Martin spoke again.

“Alright, you have a panic response, that’s okay. It’s perfectly fine to not be able to trust him yet, we just need to find better ways to cope with that. I’m assuming that when you’ve felt this way, your first response has been to try to search out reasons to trust him, like you said?”

“Or- at least tell myself, that I was going to. Make some plans.”

“Right, and that would just reinforce the idea that he was a potential threat, and that you’d get hurt if you didn’t investigate him enough.” It brought the edges of panic back, to hear Martin state it so plainly, but Jon tried to push it down enough to keep listening. “So, you need a different way to react to your feelings. Something else reassuring to tell yourself, something that’s actually helpful.”

“Like what?” Jon asked. He doubted there was anything, but Martin  _ had _ been rather good at coming up with ways to help.

“You’re worried that he’s up to something bad, right? That’s why you look to see what he’s doing? So what if you tried just  _ asking _ him what he’s doing, instead?”

“But, if he  _ was _ doing something bad, he’d just lie to me.”

“We’re trying to learn how to trust him, so we can at least ask, alright?”

“But wouldn’t that be insulting? Just, texting him to ask if he’s out there murdering archivists?”

“Trus- I mean, I hope you’ll trust me on this, that’s way less insulting than following him on his lunch breaks.”

“I haven’t done that one for a while,” Jon grumbled.

Martin looked at him.

“Yes alright it’s only because I haven’t really had the chance. God, I’m hopeless.”

“No, you’re not. You’re dealing with some really difficult situations and feelings, and you’ve made some mistakes in the process, but you’re going to deal with them better now, right?”

Jon’s first thought was to lie and say he would. He didn’t want to lie to Martin though, so he took a moment longer to really think about it. Trying to trust Tim… he  _ wanted _ to. He wished he did. That would have to be enough.

“I want to do better,” he finally answered. “I promise I’ll try.”

“Good!” Martin said, and Jon caught his smile out of the corner of his eye. “That’s perfect, Jon. That’s how it starts.”

Jon picked up his tea, just to have somewhere to hide his face.

“So,” he finally asked, mumbling into his cup, “you said I should ask him…?”

“Yep! If you’re worried about what he’s doing, you can ask him. Not for too many details — he has a right to privacy that you’ve been sorely neglecting — but friends do talk about what they’re up to sometimes! If you just chat with him now and then, I’m sure you’ll feel better.”

“What if… What if I don’t believe him? And I want to… double check?”

“You’re going to try not to do that, because it would be an invasion of privacy. But it makes sense that you’d need some extra reassurance at first. So you could ask me instead? I’ll remind you that he’s your friend, and wouldn’t lie about anything important. If you panic, I’ll help talk you down. It’ll probably be pretty hard to resist the urge to go back to your old ways at first, but you can do it, and you won’t have to do it alone.”

“Really?” Jon asked, before he could stop himself. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” Martin answered. “I told you I’d help you. With this whole curse business, and with everything else. Anything you need, you can ask.”

“Okay,” Jon said, softly, and then more determined. “Okay. Ask Tim what he’s doing, instead of looking for myself. Text you, when I can’t convince myself. Try to trust him. Let myself trust him.”

“Yep, that’s it! You’ve got this, right?”

“Right.” Jon tried to sound more confident than he felt. Fake it ‘til you make it, right? That seemed to be what Martin was asking of him.

Martin smiled at him, then picked up his cup and frowned. “Looks like the tea’s gotten cold. Would you like some more?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Jon answered, automatically. No need to impose.

“Hm, I think  _ I’d _ like some more,” Martin replied. “Do you mind?”

“Oh, go ahead.”

Jon stared down into his cold tea while Martin went to heat the water again. When he came back, it was with two more cups, and Jon accepted his easily. Why not? The fresh, hot tea was warm in his hands, in a way that spread through the rest of his body as well.

Eventually, Martin broke the quiet. “Alright, if you don’t need anything else, I’ll be out!”

“Yes, that’s all, thank you,” Jon replied.

“No problem, happy to help. See you next week? Or, actually, did you need to go shopping or anything tomorrow?”

Jon hesitated. Martin said anything he needed, he could ask. “Well,” he finally said, “I was thinking tomorrow I might try and text Tim? To apologize?”

“That’s a great idea! Would you like me to come keep you company?”

“Yes please.” Jon was glad he hadn’t had to actually ask.

“Then I’ll be there! Does ten work for you?”

“Maybe noon instead?” Jon suggested.

Martin looked at him for a moment. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Noon it is!” He set his cup on the table and stood.

“Bye, Martin. Have a safe trip home.”

“Course! Bye, Jon.”

Martin grabbed his coat and closed the closet, pulled on his shoes and was out the door.

Jon held his tea until it went cold.

* * *

Jon slept for a solid eleven hours that night. He woke up feeling lighter than he had in ages. He had coffee, and eggs and toast, and then sat by the front window to wait for Martin.

It was fifteen till when his motorcycle drove past, but he didn’t knock on the front door until noon exactly. Of course Martin was the type to arrive early but refuse to show up early. When Jon let him in, Martin hung up his coat and lined up his shoes, and immediately went to go start the kettle. When it was done he sat down on the couch next to Jon, handing him a mug of white tea.

“So! Do you want to brainstorm an opening with me, or do you just want to go for it yourself?”

“I, I can do it,” Jon declared. “You may need to ensure I hit send, but I can type it all myself.”

“Of course.”

The first text took Jon a good twenty minutes. Then he anxiously reread it till Martin asked if he needed help, at which point Jon sent it, because he was an adult and he didn’t need to be  _ ordered _ to send a  _ text. _

_ Jon: Tim, I’m sorry for how I’ve been treating you. It was extremely unprofessional, unkind, and uncalled for. I felt it was justified, but that’s no excuse. It was quite hypocritical of me to betray your trust out of worry that you’d betray mine. I appreciate that you’ve treated me as well as you have over the last couple of months, especially regarding the curse, and I’m sorry I haven’t been proving myself worthy of your kindness. I talked to Martin, and I’ve decided that I’m going to try trusting you; I’m sorry that I haven’t been. I was looking for something that would prove I could trust you, but that’s not how it works. Trust is believing in someone when proof is impossible, so I need to stop searching and just start trusting. I don’t know if I will be able to yet, but I’m going to try. Martin said it might be easier if I found a different way to reassure myself that you’re not causing harm when I start to get paranoid; he suggested I simply ask you what you’re doing, when I feel like I need to know. Would that be acceptable? _

Jon had typed and deleted several variations on “of course you don’t have to” to end with, but eventually decided Tim wouldn’t agree to something like this if he didn’t actually want to. Of course, he immediately regretted that decision, but it was too late now. Appending it in another text would seem condescending, probably. God, the whole thing probably was. Too formal, too-

_ ✓ Read 12:39 _

Jon shoved his phone at Martin and turned to bury his face in a pillow. Reply texts couldn’t see him if he couldn’t see them, right? Something like that?

“Tell me how bad it is,” he mumbled. The words came out rather muffled, but if Martin didn’t hear, then he wouldn’t answer. A real win win.

“He hasn’t replied yet.”

“God, that’s worse.” Jon sunk deeper into his new home.

“Jon, you took nearly half an hour to type your text. Give Tim a minute or two, yeah?”

Jon just grumbled in reply.

“Okay, he’s starting to reply… Sounds friendly enough so far. A little annoyed, but just in a dry way… Ha, flatterer. Hey, Jon, it’s fine, look.”

“What’d he say?” Jon asked, finally lifting his head a bit.

Martin just handed him the phone in answer, so Jon reluctantly rolled onto his back so he could actually read from it.

_ Tim: wow jon thats a wall of text even for you! _

_ Tim: most youve said to me in days??? _

_ Tim: “going to try trusting me” lmao what a ringing call for change _

_ Tim: no fr tho thank god _

_ Tim: aka martin, lmao!!!  _ 😉😇

_ Tim: i am NOT gonna tell u every little thing i do to placate ur paranoid ass _

_ Tim: but sure _

_ Tim: ill lyk what im up to in general _

_ Tim: like FRIENDS _

_ Tim: does this mean we’re friends again??  _ 🤔🤔🤔

_ Tim: cuz fyi icymi friends dont stalk each other  _ 🙄😒🤔

Martin was right. That was… fine. Less angry than Tim had the right to be. The last few texts had appeared while Jon was catching up, but by the time he reached them there was nothing new, so Tim must be done for now. He always made sure to give Jon a moment to formulate his reply.

_ Jon: Yes, Tim. I hope this means we can be friends again. I know that I was a bad friend; it’s difficult, when it feels like checking in on you is the only way to make sure I’m safe, but that’s why I’m trying to find other ways to reassure myself. If I do start invading your privacy again, you have my permission to order me to stop, for both of our goods. It’s not fair for me to take advantage of the situation to fix my other bad habits, but not this. _

_ Tim: fuck, i THOUGHT i saw you escaping up the stairs yesterday _

_ Tim: ofc you heard all of that _ 🙄🙄🤦🏾‍♂️

_ Tim: ig if we’re apologizing it WAS kinda shitty of me to say that _

_ Tim: you really don’t gotta let me command you _

_ Tim: but ngl, having that option would be pretty reassuring _

_ Tim: but only if ur actually 100% ok w it?? _

_ Jon: I am. Thank you for the concern Tim, it’s more than I deserve. _

_ Tim: the not ordering you around, no, thats basic decency _

_ Tim: but the concern? ill give you that _ 😂😉  _ looks like im just the better person _ 😇

_ Tim: not a total asshole, that’s me _

_ Tim: tim the benevolent _ 🤴🏾😇

_ Tim: anyway seeya next week? _

_ Tim: NOT outside my house???? _

_ Tim: lmao _

_ Tim: _ 😂👿👁🔪

_ Tim: jk _

_ Tim: unless _

_ Tim:  _ 👁👁👁👁

_ Jon: Yes, I’ll see you next week, at the Institute. _

There. Conversation accomplished. Jon slumped back against Martin.

Then he realized what he’d done and sat right back up again.

He risked a glance at Martin, and he was looking right back at him, but at least he wasn’t horrified. His expression was… something. It might even be positive? Jon couldn’t tell, fried as he was from texting Tim.

“So?” Martin asked. “How’d it go?

“Fine. He asked if we were friends again.”

“Oh?” Martin prompted.

“I don’t think it’s quite that easy, but it’s good to hear that he still sees it as an option.”

“Yeah. He’s really missed you, y’know. You’re not the only one who’s been missing out on part of their support system during a couple of difficult months.”

“God. I really am such an ass, aren’t I,” Jon said, leaning back — against the couch, this time.

“A bit!” Martin agreed cheerfully. “But you’re trying to do better, and that’s what matters.”

“I said he could order me to stop. If I start… bothering him again.”

This look was closer to what Jon had expected earlier: a sort of negative surprise, quickly pasted over with a neutral smile. Shit, had Jon missed a similar moment of disgust before? Too late to do anything about it now, but he resolved to be more mindful of their relative positions in the future.

“That’s great!” Martin said. “If you’re giving him permission to order you, that means you’re trusting him not to abuse it! That’s the exact kind of thing we’re working towards.”

Jon wasn’t sure it was a sign of trust so much as resignation to his own stubbornness, but it still felt nice, to see Martin so enthusiastic.

Martin continued, “And I have said it would be helpful to have someone else who can regularly countermand for you. Like when I had to take off early, I know that was rough on you. Better not to rely just on me, yeah? We could even… switch off.”

The sour look was back, just for a moment, now that Jon was looking for it.

“Maybe eventually,” Jon agreed uncomfortably. “But… not for a while? I wouldn’t want to bother Tim, we’re not even really friends again yet. And I’m still… not quite ready.”

“Of course,” Martin said easily. “I’d love to keep helping you, as long as you’re okay with being stuck with me.”

Jon nodded, relieved.

* * *

Jon had decided to say hello to Tim when he came in on Monday. That was friendly, right? Except he hadn’t accounted for the fact that he came in earlier than Tim,  _ and _ had his own office, so saying hello would require a much more specific initiative than expected.

He wasn’t going to let that stop him, though, he’d promised Martin he would  _ try, _ so at half past nine he marched out in the main office and said, “Tim.”

“What’s up, Boss?”

Shit. He really hadn’t thought this through.

“Er. Good morning.”

Tim stifled a snicker. “You too, bud.”

Everyone was staring at them.

“Um, good morning to you too, Sasha. Martin.”

“Hello, Jon,” Martin replied, while Sasha just went back to work.

Right. Mission accomplished. He could-

“Hey, what if we all went out to lunch today?” Tim suggested.

“Oh, that would be nice!” Martin replied.

“Can’t, I’ve got a lunch date,” Sasha said, finally adding to the conversation. She was always so focused.

“You could bring your man,” Tim replied, “like a double date!”

“In what way would that be a double date,” she asked.

“I bring the double,” Tim explained, gesturing to Jon and Martin with one hand each, “and you bring the date!”

“Very funny, but I’m afraid I’ll still have to pass.”

Tim sighed. “At least I’ve still got you two. You’re in, right, Jon?”

Jon nodded. Lunches together would be a good step towards rekindling their friendship. And if it had the added bonus of letting him keep an eye on Tim, that was an irrelevant side benefit that he was  _ not _ deliberately seeking out.

* * *

Lunch was awkward, of course, but… perhaps not as bad as it could have been? It wasn’t anything like research days, but it wasn’t like the last few months either. Jon wasn’t sure if he knew how to just casually hang out with someone anymore, but he was making the attempt.

Tim wasn’t smiling as widely and often as usual, but when he did, it was… different. Not easy friendship, but not distant cheer. He was making the attempt, too.

Tim was the one who brought up the past weekend, and Jon was relieved he could get his reassurance without asking. It felt more believable, too; why would Tim start a conversation on a topic where he had something to hide? He told Jon and Martin about some game tournament that he’d lost in the second round, and Jon realized he’d nearly forgotten that Tim was into that sort of thing. God, not only had his research been terribly rude, it had also been terribly ineffective. What else had he forgotten, over the last couple of months?

Martin talked about a show he’d gotten hooked on, some sort of literary trivia. He’d found a site with the entire backlog and ended up getting halfway through in just the past week. It was interesting to hear about. It was nice to know what his friends did for fun. What else had Jon missed, when he’d been listening only for clues?

When it was obviously his turn to share, he worried for a moment. It felt risky, to give information to a potential threat, but this was just Martin and Tim, and he was going to trust them. So he admitted that he’d spent most of Sunday on wikipedia, clicking from one article to the next, and now knew quite a bit about agriculture in the Middle Ages. Martin laughed and asked for some trivia, which Jon easily started reciting. Then his mention of the invention of the horseshoe reminded Tim about the time he made friends with a farrier at a historical reenactment, and the conversation moved on.

It was warm, in the fast food restaurant. The seats were uncomfortable, but plenty of light streamed in through the windows. The worry still tugged at him, but Jon found he could take a deep breath and ignore it, and focus on friendly chatter instead. He just had to try.

* * *

The next day, Elias called Jon up to his office. Jon worried the whole way there of course, alternatingly sure he was about to be fired and annoyed that he might be getting interrupted for anything less.

“Jon, thank you for meeting with me. Your coworkers have suggested that you could use a little assistance overcoming your paranoia.”

That… was not at all what Jon was expecting.

“I’d thought I’d let you figure it out on your own, as it can be counterproductive to try to rush people through these things. However, I’m happy to help if you’re willing to be helped, so I got a copy of the CCTV feeds for you.” Elias handed him a flashdrive.

“The CCTV?” Jon asked, bewildered.

“Everything from the week Gertrude died! While not as comprehensive as I’m sure you’d like, they do show the comings and goings of the staff, which is absolutely enough to provide reassuring alibis. You’re free to keep this drive, I put it together just for you.”

Video feeds. Jon had promised to try and stop looking, and now Elias was just  _ handing _ him a flashdrive of video feeds. This could be  _ it. _

“You said, my coworkers suggested this. Was it Martin?”

“Yes, and Tim.”

Martin, and Tim. They’d both gone to Elias to try to help Jon.

Jon was looking forward to going through the videos, but even just carrying them down to his office, he felt better. He had friends who wanted to help him.

* * *

Jon spent the entire evening going over the CCTV footage in his flat. When it hit midnight, he texted Martin, who suggested Jon finish up soon, and told him to text again if he was still awake in two hours.

Jon didn’t know if the command counted over text, but he messaged him again in two hours anyway.

The footage sort of helped? But it also sort of made it worse. It was wonderful that Martin and Tim had alibis, as well as Sasha and Elias, but with everyone checked off, he was back to square one or worse. Obviously  _ someone _ had committed the murder, after all. Perhaps whoever it was had snuck in through the tunnels? It wasn’t a very comforting thought.

He trusted Martin, and he would trust Tim; no more wild investigations of his coworkers. But he would still be careful. So, so careful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:
> 
> Panic attack: Jon has a small panic attack partway through a difficult conversation; he gets help calming down, and then continues the convo.
> 
> Speaking of which there are a couple of difficult / kind of embarrassing convos, but they all turn out well. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a whole chapter in one day yesterday let's goooo!!

A cop came by Thursday morning. Not Basira, but her partner, Daisy. She seemed reluctant to be there, violence in every line of her body, but she still gave a statement. It was odd. She was angry afterwards, but she kept answering questions, and then:

“You keep this visit to yourself! Got that?” And oh, Jon  _ got _ that.

He’d been thinking about telling Martin about the tapes. Tim, too. Especially now that Daisy had revealed they were suspecting  _ Jon, _ he wanted to tell someone, but now…

Now he couldn’t.

It wasn’t like on the train, Martin right there and keeping an ear out, ready to help, often before Jon even warned him he needed it. Martin was only one door away but it might as well have been a mile, because this time he couldn’t warn him at all, could he? If he said, “Daisy gave me an order,” that wouldn’t exactly be keeping the visit to himself. Completely accidentally, he’d been given an order that prevented its own undoing. He would just be under its effects forever.

Oh god, forever.  _ Forever. _ The word echoed in his mind, filling all the hollow spaces inside of him until he had no room for other thoughts, no room even for air. This was forever. He’d been treating it like an inconvenience to get through, but the book hadn’t exactly had an expiration date, and now Daisy’s easy command had bound him  _ forever _ and anyone else could do the same.

He’d stopped thinking about it. He’d gotten used to it, he’d gotten complacent, he’d fallen into a routine and even started taking advantage of it on purpose and he’d forgotten how  _ fucked _ up it was, that he was  _ cursed. _ Anyone could make him do  _ anything. _ Forever.

Wasting his time worrying about conspiracies and secret murderers, when that wouldn’t even be necessary to kill him. Someone malicious could destroy his life, so easily. Someone  _ slightly upset _ could destroy his life. Someone who had no idea what was going on, someone who was just trying to be helpful,  _ anyone _ could do  _ anything _ to him.

If Daisy had known, she probably still would have done it. She probably would have been  _ more _ sure to do it, would’ve added additional commands. Something about her… she didn’t seem like the type to  _ not _ abuse every power given to her. God, what if she had  _ known- _

“Knock knock!” a voice rang out, multi-layered, sheer and dark and airy. “Or wait… That should be your line, shouldn’t it? Since  _ I’m _ the door. Hm, should I be saying, ‘who’s there?’”

_ “Michael?” _ Jon whirled around, and there it was.

_ “I _ may not be Michael, but  _ you _ are even less. You’re switching the lines again, Archivist. But I suppose you  _ are _ all switched up and turned around, yourself. Lost in your own head… how long would it have taken you to notice me, I wonder?” It giggled its ruffled giggle, and Jon did  _ not need this right now. _

“So that’s what you’re doing? You’re just here to laugh at me for being  _ concerned _ that-” and he couldn’t say it, of course.

“Of course that’s what I’m doing,” it laughed, “it’s what we all do. Though I may have to ask you to stop asking questions. Now isn’t that fun? Anyone you compel can turn it back, mirrors on mirrors.”

“Anyone I compel? What are you talking about? Tell me more!” Static rose, sharpening the tatted edges of Michael’s existence.

“Of course you ask about asking by _asking._ _That’s_ all I’m talking about, dear Archivist.” It said it as if it was some sort of explanation, and one Jon shouldn’t need. He knew that tone well enough, and it stabbed like forgotten pins.

“And now,” it continued, “What  _ shall _ I tell you? That you keep winding yourself in circles? That you’re stuck in more traps than one? Eyes upon eyes upon eyes, and none of them seeing what’s hidden right in front of them. It’s less fun for me, of course, if you don’t even realize how your perception has distorted; or is it? What’s the difference, if the window is covered by an image of the landscape outside? It’s no less true. And yet, it’s a complete fabrication. There may not even  _ be _ a window! Or there may not be a landscape. You’re just left to wonder, aren’t you?  _ Which _ bit is it that’s so  _ wrong?” _

“Shut  _ up,” _ Jon growled, “I can’t stand you, you make no  _ sense.” _

“You gave it a try, but I really, truly don’t!” It laughed at that, long and rippling. “You were  _ so _ upset at the Hunter’s command, not to tell about her… Perhaps you’d prefer the opposite? To be made to tell?”

Michael knew about Daisy. It knew, it could do something, it was basically  _ offering _ to do something, and Jon didn’t know why but he was  _ not _ going to let the opportunity pass by.

“Yes, I would!” he answered. “If you could make me tell, about Daisy, that would be-”

It laughed again and the laughter  _ dragged. _ “Oh, you’re adorable! You know what, I’ll give you that one too. Archivist,” it commanded, “tell your little friends about Daisy. But first, tell them about  _ me. _ Tell them all of that which isn’t.”

It stepped through the door, which had never been there, and Jon was alone again.

He wanted to take a moment to get himself together. He probably looked a mess from his panic attack, and everything else still looked a mess to him, the lingering effects of a visit from Michael. He could feel the command wrapping around him, though. He’d gotten so used to leaning into it, something soft and guiding that he’d chosen, but this one was sharp, restrictive. When he tried to pull on it, it pulled back.

His legs walked him across the room. His arm reached out to the door. For a moment he managed to clench his hands into fists instead of grabbing the doorknob, but then his mouth opened to call for Martin, so he just wrenched the door open. Better to get it over with.

Tim and Sasha both looked over, startled at the thud of the door. Martin wasn’t in the room.

Michael had said “tell them about me,” “them”. Not very specific, but Jon knew it’d been referring to Tim and Martin. The people he’d wanted to tell about Daisy. Tim and Sasha wouldn’t cut it.

“Sasha?” Jon asked, louder than expected. “Can you, where’s Martin, I need to-”

“He’s just at the library. Would you like me to fetch him?”

Jon nodded, and Sasha strode out of the room. He considered texting Martin as well, maybe even searching for him himself, but he didn’t know where exactly in his office he’d set his phone, and knew even less about where in the library Martin would be. So sending Sasha really was the best plan, and all Jon could do now was wait.

He wobbled a bit, taking a step back to put his back against the door. He was completing his task as best he could, so what was he supposed to do now? He was supposed to be telling them, but he was making that happen by sending Sasha, but he was supposed to be  _ telling _ them.

“Boss, maybe you should sit down?”

It hadn’t been worded as a command, carefully so, but it was close enough. Jon latched onto it and sat down. He was supposed to be doing something and he  _ was _ doing something, he was sitting, just like Tim wanted him to. He ran his fingers over the armrests, realized it was Tim’s chair he was sitting in, and almost felt bad about taking it from him. He’d been told to, though, so no reason to bother with guilt.

“So… What’s wrong?” Tim asked.

Jon shook his head. “Need to tell both of you, might as well, might as well wait.”

“Anything I can do for ya in the meantime?”

He shook his head again. “No, just need to tell you, about, about…” He stumbled on “it”, tripped on “him”, and “them” fit worse than either. How was he supposed to tell them about something he couldn’t even refer to? “All of that which isn’t,” he finally settled on, and the technical fulfilment of part of the command sent a shiver through him.

“Jon?” Martin called, emotional. “Jon, what’s wrong, what do you need?”

Martin was here. Jon finally collapsed back into the chair, setting its ergonomic supports wobbling for a moment. He could tell them, now.

“It was Michael,” Jon answered.

“Like with the hands and the doors?” Martin asked, and Jon nodded.

“Yes. Michael visited and told me to tell you about… I don’t even know which word to use, and that’s as good of a place to start as any! It’s- It’s not. It’s not anything. Or it is something, but it specifically isn’t the thing that it is but it’s not anything else either so then what’s left?”

“-Jon? Tim, do you know-”

“-just stumbled out of his office like this-”

“A person, distorted?” Jon continued, not paying the others any mind. “A feeling on the back of your teeth like something’s wrong? A door or what lies beyond? It’s not  _ really _ any of those.”

“-Michael, from Sasha’s statement?”

“Yeah, pretty sure he ordered Jon to describe him, or-”

“I can’t… I can tell you what it said, that’s something about it, if not it. It said I’m stuck, eyes and eyes and eyes and eyes not seeing what’s in front of them, windows that aren’t windows but they are but they aren’t. Last time it said I’m not it’s usual flavor, but still delicious. Winding around myself. It laughed like pins and needles and sour candy, it joked about knock knock jokes.”

“-op talking. It’s not working! It’s never-”

“This one hit him pretty hard, he doesn’t seem to be-”

“But just listing descriptions, that’s the opposite of telling you anything about what it is. That makes you think it’s something that can be described and it’s not, it’s that which  _ isn’t, _ but then, isn’t leaving you with incorrect assumptions and perceptions, doesn’t that tell you the most of all, doesn’t that bring you closest to understanding?”

“-to me. Jon, look at me!” Martin shouted, and Jon looked, made real eye contact. He felt dizzy with it.

“It’s,” he whispered, “it’s, that which…”

“Jon, stop talking for at least ten seconds,” Martin commanded.

Jon stopped, and managed to look down.

“Michael told you to describe it, right?”

Jon nodded.

“Stop describing Michael. You’re done with that. Did it tell you to do anything else?”

Jon nodded again.

“Tell me what else it told you to do.”

Two one hundred, one one hundred, “To tell my little friends about Daisy, after.”

“Alright,” Martin said, “Don’t tell us about-”

Jon’s hand darted out to tap Martin twice, who immediately cut himself off.

“Ah. You do want to tell us?”

Nod.

“Okay. I was going to say, unless you want to.”

Oh. Jon shouldn’t have doubted him. He was always careful, to countermand without requiring the opposite.

“But I’m glad you stopped me,” Martin was continuing, “I should’ve asked first. I’m sorry I couldn’t ask about making you stop and look at me, you just weren’t listening.”

Jon shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something, to reassure Martin that it was fine and good that he’d stepped in, but it felt like everything was going to spill out of him all tangled again if he spoke.

Martin was looking at him expectantly. Tim was a step away, looking around, the picture of casual.

Tim.

Jon scootched the chair over a bit, so he could reach to tap Tim’s arm.

When Tim looked at him, Jon signed, “Interpret, please?”

Tim straightened up, and turned towards him fully. His eyes opened wide and he smiled a wide smile to match as he moved his hand as if knocking hard on a door. Jon brought his own hand down from his chin in a short but emphatic thank you. Then he turned slightly back to Martin, and repeated the motion, longer, then continued to sign.

“He says thanks,” Tim said, “and that your help was necessary, and he doesn’t mind.”

“Oh! Um, no need to thank me, just doing my job,” Martin answered. He watched Jon intensely as he signed his reply, as if he could understand it just by looking hard enough.

“Your job?” Tim interpreted. “Helping me?”

“Well yeah, you’re my boss!” Martin replied cheerfully.

Jon rolled his eyes.

“So,” Martin asked, “Did you want to tell us about Daisy?”

Jon considered for a moment, then moved one finger through the air in two hops.

“Later.”

“Yeah, of course,” Martin agreed easily.

“Do you need help with that?” Tim asked. “Since you said Michael told you ‘after’ and now it’s after, will you be able to delay it okay?”

Jon wasn’t actually sure. Maybe.

“He says maybe.”

“Would you rather leave it, then,” Martin asked, “or have me add something just in case?”

“Add something, please,” Tim interpreted.

“Okay. Jon, tell me what-”

Jon pinched his fingers together in the sign for “stop,” which Martin seemed to understand well enough to stop immediately, watching as Jon continued to sign.

“Stop… Ah, he says to say both of us, not just you.”

“Got it. Tell  _ us _ what you’d like to tell us about Daisy, when you decide it’s a good time to do so.” Martin tilted his head at Jon once he finished the command, and Jon gave him a nod and a thumbs up. That would work.

“Alright!” Tim said. “Any other commands need sorted?”

“No,” Jon answered, along with shaking his head and pinching his fingers together, a smaller sign than stop.

“What else can we do to help? What do you need?” Martin asked.

Jon signed ‘nothing’, a small motion with both hands. “Just go back to work,” he explained out loud.

Martin huffed. “What about you, we’re not going to just leave you after all that!”

Ugh. Such a short sentence, and he’d already been misunderstood. He switched back to sign.

“Ah, he’s not telling us to leave him,  _ he’s _ going to leave  _ us _ for his work. Yes, yes, and also telling us to get back to work, we get it Boss, you’re a real taskmaster.” Tim frowned at Jon as he continued, “For real, though, you need to take a fifteen minute break at  _ least, _ or I’m making you go home early.”

Jon glared at him.

“No I wouldn’t command you to, but I’m fully capable of carrying you to my car!”

Jon rolled his eyes and stalked to the break room. A break wouldn’t hurt, he supposed, especially if it would get Martin and Tim off of his back.

* * *

Jon ended up telling Martin and Tim about Daisy’s visit at five the same day, after they were off the clock but before they went home. He told them about Basira, too, all the research he was doing into Gertrude and her plans. So, when Jon listened to Daisy’s tape on Friday morning, heard a creak, and found Gertrude’s hidden compartment, he decided to tell them about that too.

He called them all together at five again, but before he could explain why, Tim started whining. “It’s a Friday evening Boss, I wanna get out of here!”

“Well, don’t let me keep you if you don’t want to listen,” Jon replied.

“No, no, I do, it’s just, here? This isn’t even work related!”

“It actually is,” Jon started, but Tim interrupted again.

“Not enough that you asked Sasha to stay!”

“Fine. What do you want, Tim.”

“Let’s go to my place! I know it’s been too cold for Martin’s motorcycle lately, so I can just give you guys a ride, and we can talk about whatever this is somewhere that’s not  _ at work _ on a  _ Friday evening, _ and then I can drop you off at home!”

Tim might’ve had some ulterior motive, but it  _ was _ awful cold, and Jon  _ did _ particularly dislike public transit these days… Martin and Tim were making faces at each other, raising eyebrows and rolling eyes, but Martin hadn’t said he was opposed, so…

“I suppose we can, if Martin wants to. Why not,” Jon decided.

“Yeah, sure,” Martin agreed.

“Hell yeah, let’s go!”

* * *

Coats and shoes off at the door, piled on and next to the small table. Tim waved the others in to the couch, telling them to sit down while he got tea and snacks.

“Why is  _ Tim _ allowed to make the tea at  _ his _ house?” Jon asked. He wasn’t offended, exactly, but it was rather confusing. Jon didn’t  _ think _ he was any worse at brewing tea than Tim.

“He has an electric kettle, rather than stovetop,” Martin explained, making a face. “I refuse to touch it.”

“But in that case, wouldn’t it be more important to not mess up the rest?”

“Oh, don’t worry, he knows how to do it right.”

“And I don’t?”  _ Now _ Jon was a bit offended.

“Maybe I’ll teach you some day,” Martin replied.

Jon muttered, “I know how to make tea,” but then let the topic drop.

Tim came in with a plate of cheese and crackers and another plate of mugs, saying, “If we’re here for a while I can make a whole dinner, but this should be good for now!” He arranged the mugs in front of each of them, and then sat down, in the armchair to the side of the coffee table.

Martin went for the tea immediately, breathed in the steam and then took a small sip.

Jon gave his own tea a moment to cool, reaching for some fresh mozzarella instead.

“So, what are we in for, Boss?” Tim asked.

Jon finished his bite and then launched into his story. “Well. I was listening to the tape Daisy gave me, and on it, the statement-giver gave Gertrude a page of a book. She said something about saving it for later, and then there was a creak, and I realized I  _ knew _ that creak. So I checked the floorboard, and sure enough, there was a hidden compartment underneath! And in this compartment…” Jon paused, rummaging through his bag, then revealed the objects with a flourish, “was a laptop and a key!”

“Oh fuck!” Tim replied, appropriately.

“I guess that proves you were right about Gertrude having a laptop,” Martin said.

“Of course I was. Why in the world would someone have a charger but not the laptop to go with it?”

“So, what’s on it?” Martin asked.

“And what’s the key go to!” Tim added.

“I only just found them today,” Jon answered, “I don’t know yet.”

“Aw, you didn’t even open the laptop yet? You waited for us? Boss, I’m touched!”

“Yes, yes, it just seemed more efficient.”

Jon waited for Tim to join them on the couch, then opened the computer and hit the power button.

He needn’t have bothered with any of the drama, though, apparently. It booted up to a very plain login screen. Of course.

“Try the key,” Tim joked.

“I will as soon as you find the keyhole,” Jon replied, dry, and Tim snickered.

“Let’s try some passwords?” Martin suggested, and Tim immediately reached for the laptop.

“Archives one… nope… Robinson… nope… what’s her birthday?”

Jon had seen it on some paperwork when he was first taking over as Head Archivist, so he told Tim.

“Wow, why do you know that? Nope, didn’t work either, and look.” He angled the screen to show them a message, white text on black screen.

_ Too many login attempts. Locked for 24 hours. _

“That’s a strict one,” Tim complained, “Martin didn’t even get a try.”

They really shouldn’t have given Tim the first try, since he apparently had the same sort of password ideas as a primary school student with their first email account. Jon’s own passwords were much more secure, based on titles and page numbers from books he’d read as a child, with every other consonant missing and every vowel capitalized. Gertrude’s were bound to be even  _ more _ obscure, judging from how she’d hidden the laptop. Sadly, Jon didn’t know where he’d even begin making his own guesses for her; he sure didn't know  _ her _ childhood hobbies.

“-a couple more seconds next time,” Martin was saying.

Oh, Jon had missed part of a conversation.

“S’pose I must have been impatient,” Tim replied.

“It’s alright, this time, I know you were trying.”

They were… talking about the tea, Jon guessed? A couple seconds, Martin really  _ was _ picky.

“So!” Tim said, noticing that Jon was paying attention again. “I’m not going to keep you of course, if that’s all that you had to tell us, but you’re welcome to stay if you want? Might be nice to just hang out a bit.”

“I wanted to get some things done tonight,” Jon hedged, but Tim’s face fell at that so he continued with, “but I can stay for a bit.”

“Nice! You too, Martin?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He seemed so genuinely happy to have them staying; it made Jon feel a swoopy sort of excited, to know his presence was appreciated, as well as a sinking guilt at the fact that it had been so long since they’d done this. Nothing he could do about that, though. He was trying now.

They finished off the simple charcuterie and the tea while they chatted about weekend plans. Martin had caught up on his game show and was starting a new podcast, Tim was going to go on a sort of puzzle-solving hike, and Jon… had been planning to just sort statements and see what he could do about the laptop, but at the others’ disappointed looks, he added that he might get some light reading in. That met with approval, and he relaxed, happily tracing swirls across his arms. Maybe it  _ would _ be nice to pick up a book.

Eventually, Tim turned to Jon with a serious look. “So, how are you feeling, after yesterday?”

“Ah, I’m fine. No lingering effects; Martin countermanded everything adequately.”

“I’m glad we got that part cleared up, but, how do you feel?” Martin asked. “That was kind of a lot? And right after talking to Daisy, who seems like a bit much even on a normal day, when you’re not cursed.”

Jon looked down at his hands, carefully scratching between two spots on his wrist without touching either. “I’m fine.”

He could feel them looking at him, and dug in harder for a moment, till his stubby nail just slipped off to the side.

“What do you want me to say?” he snapped, fed up with their prying care. “That I had nightmares about it? Because I did, but they weren’t that bad, I’d take it over the worm nightmares any day.” The curse dreams weren’t as bad objectively, at least, but they did have an extra punch of continued relevance.

“Ugh, I know what you mean,” Tim said. “This job has a lot of nightmare fuel.”

“Yes, it does,” Jon agreed, fight leaving him as quickly as it had arrived. Tim did know what he meant. “I’m used to nightmares, though, I can deal with that. The problem with this one is it doesn’t go away. I wake up and I’m still cursed. Who knows what it will be next time? I’ve been vaguely assuming that if anything happened at work without you two in the room, I could text you, but I can’t if I’m told not to. There are so many commands that would be immediate and irreversible…”

“Or somewhere else!” he continued. “I don’t go anywhere by myself, but that doesn’t mean there’s no way I’ll interact with someone, a neighbor asking for something. I could just not answer the door, but what if they call through? Or what if there’s an emergency and I have to step out, and then someone gets me? There’s just so much that could happen! And it only takes one little incidental command to trap me, this time all she said was to keep the visit to myself, but what if she’d also told me something else, something worse, and I couldn’t tell you, or, or something like that?”

“Yeah. I get you,” Tim said. “I’ve been… pretty worried about you, bud.”

“We can stay closer at the institute,” Martin suggested, “and I could stay over, when I bring you home?”

“Stay at my flat every night? No, I can’t ask that of you-” Jon started, though Martin interrupted.

“It’s fine! Better than staying at the institute, and-”

_ “And _ I don’t think I’d be able to handle that,” Jon interrupted back. “I need  _ some _ time alone, and my flat is the safest place for it. I’m just… realizing that I’ve gotten complacent because nothing too terrible has happened yet, but it’s just inevitable that something terrible  _ will _ happen. Even if you two tried to stick with me constantly, that doesn’t actually fix the problem, it’s just a stopgap measure, and it’s not something you can keep up forever.”

“Jon, we  _ will _ make sure nothing happens,” Martin said, “no matter how long you have this curse.”

“Of course we will, but Jon’s right, it also  _ would _ be the most helpful to just, like, break the curse,” Tim pointed out. “I have no idea how we’d do that, but hey, maybe we can just fuck around and find out.”

“I’ve been trying to research the matter,” Jon said, “see if I can find any statements that seem at all similar or relevant, but Gertrude left everything such a mess. It’s impossible to find anything quickly, and I can’t just ignore my actual job to ransack the place looking for something that might not even be there.”

“No, you totally can!” Tim replied. “You’re  _ cursed, _ you have every right to drop everything else to try and fix it.”

“We’ll help you search, too,” Martin offered.

“Yeah! I’ll bust out the old Research skills, see if I can scrounge anything else up. Don’t worry Boss, we got this!”

Jon didn’t want them to neglect their other work for him, but he had to admit this project would be a lot easier with more hands and minds at work. He finally replied, “Just don’t spend  _ too _ much time on it, not during work hours.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “For a former punk, you are  _ so _ uptight. Don’t worry, I’ll stick to statements on the clock, since sorting through that mess is part of the job description anyway.”

“I suppose.”

“Don’t overwork yourself, either!” Martin added. “We’ll figure this out, Jon, and me and Tim will be by your side as long as it takes.”

“Thank you,” Jon replied quietly. “I appreciate it.”

“Anytime! So, it’s getting late, do we want to make dinner?” Tim asked.

Jon winced. “I really do have some things to get done tonight.”

“Ah, that’s fine, that’s fine, I’ll drop you off. Martin?”

“I’m not going to just sit in your empty flat, I’ll come with you to Jon’s.”

“Alright, let’s go, then!”

It definitely seemed more efficient to bring them both home at the same time, but perhaps only barely, since Martin’s place was sort of in the other direction. Perhaps Tim had thought since Martin was so tall, he’d prefer not to be cooped up in the car for longer than necessary? Or maybe Martin was staying for dinner, even though Jon wasn’t? Didn’t matter much either way, he supposed, gathering his things to leave. He’d had a nice time, and honestly slightly regretted that he was leaving, but it would be okay. He’d see them both again on Monday, and together they’d work on fixing things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> Police: Daisy's there. She doesn't do much but she sure is Daisy.
> 
> Panic attack: Jon gets a couple orders that aren't so easily countermanded and is Not a fan.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gay gay homosexual (ace bi) gay

The first full week of December passed quickly. Jon tried to figure out how to get into Gertrude’s laptop himself, but hacking absolutely wasn’t his area of expertise, so he gave up on the youtube tutorials and made some forum posts. Martin kept escorting Jon to and from work, though Tim gave them both a ride home on a particularly snowy day. Melanie came by again, which Jon hadn’t been expecting, but even more unusual was her misremembering of Sasha.

Jon wanted to make himself just brush it off — but Melanie had been so sure that something was wrong — but Jon was trying not to be paranoid — but  _ god _ it was hard. He was trying to trust his friends, though, he really was. Sure he wasn’t confiding in Sasha like he was the other two, and who knew if he ever would, she just… didn’t seem like the type. It didn’t feel right. But being acquaintances rather than friends didn’t mean Jon needed to start acting weird again, just because a near-stranger made an odd comment.

He knew he didn’t need to, but it  _ felt _ like he needed to.

Sasha was right there, and something was wrong, Melanie had said so, but Jon had no idea what, so if he just-

If he just-

He didn’t get a lot of work done, but at least he didn’t do anything else either.

He went to bed as soon as he got home, put a podcast on his headphones and tried not to think.

* * *

The next morning he was groggy enough from the restless night to mechanically do some weekend chores, but by evening, he was pacing around his flat again. He knew he was just being paranoid. He was being paranoid, but something was wrong, someone had killed Gertrude, and something was  _ wrong, _ and theoretically everyone was trustworthy but that just meant no one was.

Any one of them could be up to something right now — he just wanted to  _ check _ — if he caught the culprit, then no harm done to anyone good, and if everyone was just doing normal things, then what did they have to hide — except that’s not how it  _ worked. _ Jon  _ knew _ that ideology led nowhere good.

He  _ felt _ like he should go check, but he wasn’t supposed to, he was supposed to… ask. He didn’t want to bother them though, texting on a Saturday night. But of course showing up at their  _ homes _ would be more of a bother. He’d just…

He’d…

Maybe he’d go out for a cigarette.

He had his shoes on by the time he admitted to himself that for once in his life,  _ that _ was the excuse, the reason to get outside so he could do something worse. Smoking only hurt himself, but stalking his friends would hurt  _ them, _ and he didn’t want to do that. Maybe he  _ would _ go buy a pack instead. Destroy himself before someone else could. Not that lung cancer was that fast. Not that he was even worried about that, Georgie had been the one to convince him to quit. Maybe he’d just…

Jon took his shoes off and tossed them at the shoe rack. Then he walked back over and set them in their place, neatened up the whole row that had been jostled. Scootched them all over a couple centimeters, so they were centered. Stalked to his bedroom before he could start debating the merits of lining them up symmetrically, lefts and then rights, instead of by pair.

His phone blinked at him from his desk.

He picked it up and texted Martin before he could think twice.

_ Jon: Tell me stay home tonight _

_ Jon: Or I think I might go to Sasha’s flat and I know I shoudln’t but I’m so worried _

_ Jon: I didn’t want to bother you but it would probably be more of a bother if Sasha quit her job first thing Monday _

_ Jon: Sorry _

_ Martin: Hey hey it’s okay you’re not a bother!! _

_ Martin: Thank you for letting me know you needed help, that was a good choice _

It didn’t feel like a good choice. Jon wasn’t sure he’d ever made a good choice in his life.

_ Martin: Jon, don’t leave your flat tonight unless there is an emergency that makes it necessary to do that. _

_ Jon: Worrying my coworkers are going to kill me isn’t an emergency? _

_ Martin: You got it, it’s not! _

_ Martin: But it’s still not a fun feeling to be sitting with so let’s see what we can do about it, okay? _

_ Martin: Would you like me to tell you what I’m doing this weekend? _

_ Jon: You could be making something up _

_ Martin: But I won’t! _

_ Martin: Friday I dropped you off then took the long way home to do some window shopping. The holidays are coming up, you know! I didn’t see anything just right but that’s fine, there’s still time left. When I got home I watched some telly, had dinner, went to sleep. _

_ Martin: This morning I visited my mum. Well I visited the home and dropped off some cookies for the nurses, mum didn’t want to see me as expected. But I did have a nice game of scrabble with a sweet old couple! _

_ Martin: I stopped by the store for groceries on the way home. I didn’t really do much for the rest of the afternoon, just worked on my knitting I suppose. I just had dinner and I wasn’t really sure what I was going to do next so thanks for giving me something to do. :) _

Logically, the stories didn’t help much. They could be lies, or even half-truths meant to obfuscate other activities that he’d done in between. Yet, they still helped. It was soothing, to watch the little typing bubble, to see the words pop up on the screen, just idle chatter. To remember that Martin was the type of person who window shopped before the holidays, and brought cookies to nurses.

_ Martin: How’s your weekend been? Besides the paranoia _

Ugh. How did he answer that.

Honestly, he supposed.

_ Jon: That’s been most of it, to tell the truth. It’s hard to focus on anything else. I did some cooking this morning, at least, for the week. Easier to fill a Saturday with it than to cook every day all week. _

_ Martin: Oh yeah meal prepping is great! I’m sorry you’ve had a rough weekend but I’m proud of you for finding something more productive to do! _

Jon let go of his phone with one hand so he could flap it a couple times. He hadn’t decided to cook as an alternative to stalking, he’d done it because it needed to be done, but it felt nice to imagine it counted anyway. The satisfaction of an active success rather than the gloom of putting off failure, a thrill like tracing around his worm spots.

_ Martin: Do you think you’ll text Tim next? Or Sasha! _

_ Jon: Tim did give me permission, but I’m not sure about Sasha. It might just be that I don’t want to talk to her, because it was something to do with her that set me off this time; however, it does also seem weird to just text her out of the blue like this. We haven’t been talking much, and she hasn’t given me permission to ask. _

_ Martin: I don’t think she’d mind! She’s been a bit busy but a few texts aren’t a bother, she can always wait to respond till she gets a moment or just tell you if she doesn’t want to answer. Maybe text her, and then Tim? _

He didn’t want to, but he trusted Martin.

_ Jon: Okay, I will. Thank you. _

_ Martin: Any time, Jon! _

Jon had to scroll down a bit in his history to find Sasha.

_ >Hello Sasha. Sorry for texting on a weekend, but I promise I’m not assigning you any more work. I just | _

Just what? Just fell back into a paranoid wreck and needed reassurance that she had hobbies that aren’t “murdering archivists”? Just got ordered by their coworker to ask permission to pry into her daily life so he didn’t have to do it in secret? It took quite a few tries to fake casual politeness, but he managed eventually.

_ >I just wanted to see how you’ve been doing lately, since we haven’t really had any chances to catch up. _

And send. Several minutes passed by, each leaving Jon feeling more and more wound up, but eventually she replied.

_ Sasha: Hey Jon! I’ve been fine. I went on a date with the boyfriend yesterday, treated him to dinner and a movie! _

That was normal. Reassuring, right? Sasha had a boyfriend, and did normal things with him.

_ Sasha: What about you? _

Jon didn’t want to be a hypocrite and lie, but he also didn’t want to tell her as much as he’d told Martin about his weekend, so he settled on a vague truth.

_ Jon: I’ve spent most of my time lately catching up on work. _

_ Sasha: Sounds like you! Seeya Monday. _

_ Jon: See you Monday. _

That was  _ normal. _ Everything was  _ fine _ with Sasha. He’d just check with Tim, and then he’d know what everyone was doing, and he’d feel okay again. He would.

_ Jon: Hello Tim. What are you up to this weekend? Hope it’s going well. _

_ Tim: lol feeling paranoid boss _

_ Tim: lucky for you i got _ ✨ _ photographic evidence _ ✨ _!! _

_ Tim: went to the cluuubs last night _

_ Tim: check out this FIT _ 😈🥵

Tim had attached a photo of himself in dim lighting with glittering makeup. He did look rather nice, tight high-waisted pants contrasting well with a boxy see-through shirt.

_ Jon: Very shiny. _

_ Tim: sure fucking is!!! _ 😘✨✨✨

_ Tim: today i slept tf in and now im stone cold chillin _

_ Tim: thought about going on a hike but damn that hangover got me _

_ Tim: so video games it is! _

_ Tim: u rly got get Some kind of console so i can bug you to co-op w me _ 🙄

_ Jon: Hm. I’ll consider it. _

_ Tim: i know u wont but thats ok _ 💖

_ Tim: hope ur feeling better!! _

_ Jon: Yes, this helped. Thank you, Tim. _

_ Tim: no problem! _ 😇😎

_ Tim: gonna bring my ps3 to work some time tho, if i dont need to kick ur ass irl for crimes, i will just have 2 kick ur ass in game for fun _

_ Jon: I don’t know what TV you would be trying to hook it up to, and no gaming outside of lunch break. _

_ Tim: BOSS!!! _

_ Tim: FUCK YEAH TOURNEY IN THE BREAK ROOM _

_ Tim: _ 🤩🎮👾

_ Jon: Goodnight, Tim. _

_ Tim: gnight!!! _

Jon had told the truth; that really had helped. Maybe he would even play a round with Tim on Monday. Just the one round. For team-building.

* * *

Jon, Martin, and Tim kept going through statements. Jon had insisted they read and sort each statement properly rather than just tearing through looking for key words, both to keep progress on the project that was the Archives going, and to make sure they didn’t miss anything, and he stood by the logic of that decision. It was exhausting work, though, even after deprioritizing follow-up. The statements that wouldn’t record on the computer were  _ draining, _ and even those that would were still sometimes difficult to get through. The Magnus Institute wasn’t exactly a place that attracted happy stories. 

Martin called out sick for a couple of days, texted Jon on a Monday night that he was so sorry but he had the flu or something and probably wouldn’t be able to bring him to work the next morning. Jon called him back immediately, an actual voice call, but that still wasn’t enough to reassure him. Who’s to say some creature wasn’t impersonating his voice? He was too worried about Martin to even worry about Tim giving him a ride the next morning, spent the whole day twisted with guilt until Tim decided they should use their lunch break to bring Martin some soup.

They texted and called beforehand, to let him know they were coming, but Martin didn’t answer. Tim said he was probably just asleep. Jon repeated it to himself over and over as they drove, but the panic didn’t abate until Martin finally opened the door at the third ring of the doorbell. He looked exhausted, hair all mussed and a hand on the wall for balance, and Jon had never been so happy to see someone.

“I…” Martin said, squinting at them, “I called in, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Jon answered.

“What time is it?”

“Lunch time, dear Marto! We brought you some soup!”

“Oh,” Martin replied, sounding lost.

Tim didn’t explain further, just strolled right past Martin with the takeout bag like he owned the place. Jon had seen Martin’s flat before, but had never been inside, and wasn’t sure he was welcome.

It took a long minute for Martin to realize he and Jon were just standing in the doorway. “Oh,” he repeated, “co- uh. You  _ can _ come in. Let’s… find Tim?”

He turned to lead the way, and when he swayed a bit on his feet, Jon hurried to catch up. “Er, perhaps you should sit down?”

“Mm? Hmm.”

Jon gently tugged him to the closest seat, an armchair with detailed but torn upholstery, and sort of guided Martin in a controlled fall onto it. Martin sighed and closed his eyes. Jon stood next to him awkwardly.

Then Tim popped around the corner with two bowls, one of which he handed to Jon, before setting the other on the side table by Martin’s chair. He made a shooing motion at Jon, towards the loveseat, and Jon obediently sat.

“Martin? Food’s here!”

Martin blinked up at Tim, who gestured to the bowl. “Chicken gnocchi soup, just for you.”

“Oh! Right, you said you brought lunch. Wow, thank you? You really didn’t have to…”

“But we wanted to! Right, Jon?”

“Right,” Jon agreed, unsure what else to add. He didn’t exactly want to confess to his worry that Martin had been held captive by worms again, not when that experience had surely been much more traumatizing for Martin himself.

“Right,” Martin repeated quietly, and then slowly tried a sip of broth.

Tim left again for a moment, returning with a mug of water for Martin and his own caesar salad. He sat next to Jon and started eating, which reminded Jon to start on his pasta.

It was fairly quiet while they ate, but it was a nice little lunch all the same. The soup brought a bit of color back to Martin’s cheeks. Tim and Jon had to leave soon as they were done, being on their lunch breaks and all, but it had been just the reassuring respite Jon needed.

* * *

Martin was back to work on Thursday. The following week, Basira came by again, though she didn’t bring any tapes. She just told Jon he couldn’t come down to the station, and while it was obviously meant as a command, it wasn’t worded as such. Jon knew she hadn’t known to do so on purpose, but he felt grateful for it all the same.

She’d been right on time, because for the next seven days, nearly the entire institute was out on holiday break. Holiday break, as if Elias hadn’t scheduled it to center Christmas, even though that resulted in a terribly awkward Wednesday through Tuesday off. Usually Jon would keep working straight through it, but he was bothering Martin enough without dragging him in during the holidays as well, so he just spent Tuesday afternoon gathering a huge stack of statements and hoped it would be enough work for the week. 

Working from home meant he could work all day, so he spent Wednesday recording and classifying statements until his voice was too sore to continue. He drank tea with honey before bed, and again in the morning, and kept going.

In the early afternoon he ran into a statement that crashed his laptop, and eagerly recorded it onto tape. Standing up to reach for the next statement left him a bit dizzy though, so he reluctantly paused for lunch, even though it was only half past one. Frozen fried rice, warmed in the microwave rather than the stove, since he didn’t feel quite up to standing for that long.

Right back to statements after lunch, and he only made it through three more before finding another  _ odd _ one. He grabbed the tape recorder again, and started reading.

When he finished and the exhaustion hit him, it was all he could do to stumble across the room and to the couch before he passed out.

* * *

The sun was shining when he woke up, his head hurt, and most of his joints ached. That’s what he got, falling asleep on the couch for… he squinted at the wall clock. God, it was nine in the morning, and it hadn’t even been dinner time when he’d passed out. Jon knew he was prone to sleeping for long stretches of time when given the chance, but usually not much more than twelve hours, and he hadn’t even been particularly tired. Not before the tape recorder statements.

He tried not to think about it too much, beyond telling himself he’d stick to the laptop for the day. The tired haze still hanging over him helped with that.

* * *

That night he slept for a much more realistic ten and a half hours, waking up just before noon on Saturday. He still felt a bit groggy, and when he picked up the first statement he could barely focus on the words, so he just — gave himself the day off. It was Christmas Eve, after all, on top of being the weekend, and he hadn’t taken any sort of break in days. Martin would tell him to take the day off.

Now, what was Jon supposed to do?

He hadn’t truly celebrated a holiday in what felt like ages, but, speaking of what Martin would do… there was a decent chance he’d show up on Wednesday with gifts. Hopefully appropriately office-casual gifts, but even then, Jon really would feel like an ass if his assistants were passing out boxes of hot cocoa and novelty paperweights and he hadn’t gotten them anything in return.

_ Jon: Would you like to go to the store with me today? If you’d rather not, that’s absolutely fine, it’s not anything too important. _

_ Martin: The store? You do realize everywhere is going to be crowded with last minute Christmas shoppers? _

_ Martin: Wait _

_ Martin: Are YOU a last minute Christmas shopper?? >:O _

Jon sighed.

_ Jon: I suppose you could say that. _

_ Martin: Well, if you’re ready to brave the crowds, I am! I’m in the middle of something, but I can be there at four? _

_ Jon: See you then. _

It was too cold for the bike, of course, so they took the tube, and it  _ was _ terribly crowded. Halfway there, Martin finally asked where they were going, and Jon admitted it was Tesco.

“You’re doing your Christmas shopping the  _ day before _ at  _ Tesco? _ I suppose I’m not actually that surprised, but really?” Martin looked like he was either suddenly in pain or trying not to laugh, and it seemed like a fairly easy guess which.

“All of the popular present-shopping places will be crowded,” Jon pointed out, as if he had any idea which places those would be. “Better to deal with a normal Tesco crowd.”

“Normal Tesco crowd plus everyone who forgot to plan their fancy dinner and stocking stuffers,” Martin replied, but then moved on to idle chatter about the last couple of days.

Sure enough, the Tesco was packed, but Jon found the novelty gift section easily enough. He directed Martin to turn around while he made his selections: a mini crepe pan bundled with a single-serve packet of crepe mix for Tim, who liked a good breakfast and found small things charming; a thermos with a diffuser shaped like a seal for Martin, what with his tea and his various animal-themed tchotchkes; and a mug of candy for Sasha. Not his most inspired choice, but he couldn’t recall any particular tastes of hers at the moment, and mixed candies tended to be a safe bet.

The underground was even more crowded on the way back, and as they caught sight of the mass of people, Martin muttered something about wishing they’d bundled up and braved the windy bike. He didn’t complain more than that, though, even when the packed train forced them to stand practically on top of each other.

Jon didn’t complain either. The ambient chatter made it difficult to hear anyone in particular, and Martin was warm. And tall. Hair ruffled from the wind, cheeks and nose still pink from the cold outside… Martin looked down and met his eyes and Jon realized that not only was he staring, he was doing it with his face pressed into Martin’s chest. He looked down as quickly as he could, hyper-aware of the warmth in his own cheeks as he turned.

By the time they made it back to Jon’s flat, he was freezing, and Martin didn’t look much better off. His gloved hands had stayed deep in his pockets for the entire walk, and his chin was tucked down into the neck of his coat. He didn’t have long hair or a scarf like Jon, or a hat or even a hood; his ears were probably freezing.

“Do you want to come in?” Jon asked before he could overthink it. “To warm up a bit, before you head back,” he clarified. But then, he didn’t want Martin to feel like he had to leave the moment he’d thawed, so Jon continued, “And maybe you could have dinner? If you want? Since it’s getting later and I’m the reason you’re out and about. It seems like it would be fair.” Unless, shit, “Unless you have somewhere to be! In which case that would just make keeping you out later even worse. Or if you just-”

“Jon?” Martin interrupted, saving Jon from further equivocation.

“Yes?” Jon answered.

“I’d love to stay for dinner.”

* * *

They talked while Jon cooked some pre-packaged ravioli and sliced french bread for garlic toast. They kept talking while they ate, and then while Jon put the dishes away, and then while Martin made tea. And then while Jon broke out the spiked cocoa, since it  _ was _ a holiday, though Martin stuck to his tea. Jon didn’t know how long it had been since he’d had such a long conversation with anyone. He didn’t usually have much to talk about besides work, and didn’t care much about whatever nonsense everyone else filled their conversations with — except, he  _ did _ care about what Martin was saying. It had been months since they’d gone longer than a day or two without seeing each other, and at some point over the days and days of consistent smalltalk, Jon had gotten invested in the mundanities of Martin’s life.

When Martin mentioned that a nurse had mentioned that his mum had mentioned a gift he’d gotten her one year, Jon knew how meaningful that was. When Martin announced that he’d finished the blanket he’d been working on, Jon knew firsthand how long he’d spent on it, so his congratulations were sincere, and so was his interest in seeing pictures. When Martin frowned a certain way after learning that Jon had passed out for over half a day, Jon knew that meant he was concerned, but wouldn’t push. Jon knew Martin.

Martin was only sitting a couple inches away — they must have been scooting closer to each other throughout the conversation — and he was warm. It was nice, watching Martin’s face so closely as he spoke, the way his mouth formed the words. It was interesting that people could just make sounds like that, by moving their throat and tongue and lips, and other people would understand what they’d meant. It was weird, and neat, and fascinating.

His mouth stopped moving for a moment, and Jon sat back a bit to look at the rest of him and try and figure out why he’d stopped.

“Well,” Martin said after a moment, “I should probably be getting home!”

“Oh. You should?” Jon asked. He hadn’t known that.

“It’s just getting late. I don’t want to impose, I thought you might be getting tired?” Martin explained.

“I’m not,” Jon replied. None of that had been a proper reason for a ‘should’, so he added, “You  _ could _ stay.”

“I suppose I could,” Martin agreed. “Did you want me to?”

Jon nodded. “Do you want to?”

Martin nodded.

‘I’ll put on a show then,” Jon decided, since he’d been having a little trouble keeping up with the conversation at the end there, which wasn’t fair to Martin. He also had to take a moment to steady himself when he stood up to get the laptop, so signs were pointing to a bit too much brandy in his second mug of cocoa. That was fine, though, safe at his flat with Martin and a movie.

Martin cleaned the drinks away while Jon logged on and plugged in the HDMI. Once the laptop was set up, he pushed it towards Martin to let him choose what they’d watch, and settled back onto the couch.

When Martin sat back down he was farther away, but by the end of the movie — whatever it had been — they were close together again. The soundtrack was pleasantly soft over the credits, and Jon theorized that Martin was probably pleasantly soft at the moment, too. On the train he’d been wearing a plasticy coat, but now he was down to just a sweater, likely hand-knit. Jon wanted to trace his fingers across the rows, check for himself if there was a brand name sewn into the back of the neckline.

“Should we watch another one?” Martin asked, and Jon glanced back up at his face and realized he wasn’t the only one looking away from the screen. The alcohol was wearing off enough for him to feel a bit embarrassed that he’d been caught staring, but not enough to make him actually regret it. He still felt just a bit warm and fuzzy. He knew he’d normally be pulling away anxiously about now, but he just wasn’t feeling the need, so he didn’t.

Instead he leaned towards Martin just the smallest bit more and asked, “Can I kiss you?”

“Oh!” Martin jumped from comfortable sprawl to straight-back sit so quickly that Jon startled back a bit himself. “Oh, um, I- Oh jeez. You’re… you’re a little drunk, Jon? And I’m not, so it really wouldn’t be… It’s maybe not the best time?”

“Oh,” Jon repeated. Of course. He’d been thinking about sweaters and lips and safety and warmth, it had seemed like a wonderful time to be  _ close _ and  _ held, _ but of course. Jon wanted to kiss Martin, but why would Martin want to kiss Jon? Normal, sober Jon with all his anxieties was usually the correct one in the end.

Martin was still looking at him, and for all that Jon had just been thinking about how well he knew Martin, he still didn’t know how to read this expression.

“Maybe,” Martin said, “you could ask me again later?”

Jon nodded slowly. Maybe… he could?

“Alright, I should definitely be going now!” Martin said, and rushed off to the doorway to bundle himself back up for the cold. It would probably be even colder, now that it was properly night rather than merely past sundown.

“Take my scarf,” Jon suggested quietly.

“What was that?” Martin asked.

Jon stood up — body cooperating much better now than it had earlier — and fetched his scarf from where he’d left it on top of the shoe rack. Then he dug through the small box next to it, and found a hat as well. He shoved them both towards Martin.

“Here. It’s cold out.”

“But-”

“Don’t worry, I have more,” Jon added. Of course Martin would fuss, even though Jon wouldn’t exactly be going anywhere before the next time Martin came by, considering that would mean going somewhere without Martin.

“Well. Thank you, then. I appreciate it.” Martin took the scarf and wound it around his neck, and then pulled the hat on.

Jon nodded in response. That would keep Martin’s ears  _ much _ warmer.

“Well… See you next week!”

And then Martin darted forward and placed a quick kiss on the top of Jon’s head, before immediately turning to leave, shutting the door gently behind him.

Jon stood there in the doorway for a while, carefully running his fingers through the hair on the top of his head, the steady rhythm a grounding counterpoint to the memory of Martin’s soft, soft kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> Paranoia: Jon has a bit of spiral, but reaches out for help.
> 
> Cigarettes: Jon considers smoking as a distraction / self harm.
> 
> Alcohol: Jon gets drunk bc it's kind of a holiday so why not.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wild that Jon got a forehead kiss last time, huh! Where could we possibly go from there??

When Jon came into the office on Wednesday, he set his assistants’ presents on their desks, unwrapped and unlabeled, while Martin was in the break room. Then he immediately started to second guess himself. Should he have picked up gift bags on the way in? Should he have waited to see if anyone else was giving gifts before committing himself? But just five minutes later Martin knocked, and along with the usual morning tea, he set a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with white yarn on Jon’s desk. He scurried back out before Jon could say anything.

Jon tugged the yarn off, then carefully unfolded the paper, revealing something soft and plum purple: a pair of knit fingerless gloves. He pulled them on, experimental, and they fit. He’d been trying to put his own drunken proposition out of his mind all week, but the soft knit on his hands reminded him of the way he’d thought about Martin’s sweater. Reminded him of soft lips on his skin…

When Jon went to thank Martin for the gloves,  _ he _ was the one stumbling over his words, for once. When Martin thanked him back, cooing over the little seal, Jon had to make a quick escape to his office.

Tim came in an hour later, and exclaimed over the tiny pan so loudly that Jon could hear it through the closed door. It was only another couple moments until Tim was knocking his jaunty knock and letting himself in, crowing, “Boss! You shouldn’t have! By which I mean I’m so glad you did, this thing is so freaking tiny!” He brandished the little crepe pan in one hand, obviously pleased, but that wasn’t the only thing he held; he also had a small drawstring gift bag, which he deposited in front of Jon with a flourish. “Open it!”

Jon did, loosening the strings and tilting the bag so its contents slid into his other hand: a couple of bookmarks, the topmost of which said ‘I like big books and I cannot lie,’ and… a clip-on book light, it seemed, though it was shaped like a…

“A worm, Tim, really?” It wasn’t silver at least, classic pink instead, with wide googly eyes set right above the light bulb.

“I figure worms as a whole owe you and I a little compensation, huh?” It was obviously a joke, but Tim seemed a bit worried, hesitant, tone not quite there and posture more subdued.

“I suppose you’re right,” Jon replied, carefully dry. “Community service, it is.”

Tim grinned, and Jon’s lips tilted up in return. A shared smile. A shared experience.

Sasha must have passed her presents out during lunch, because Jon came back from the café with Martin and Tim to find a little shiny gold box with silver ribbons waiting on his desk. It was heavy in his hands as he opened it, revealing something nestled in white tissue paper: a snow globe.

It was the customizable kind with a little slot for a photo, and Sasha had already customized it. A younger Jon looked out at him, dressed up for some research get-together, with Sasha’s arm around his shoulders. Jon’s smile was awkward in the photo, forced for the camera. Sasha’s was wide and bright, but through the snow and the warped, round glass, it seemed just as fake.

Jon put it up on a shelf, but made a note to self to take it down once the holiday season was over.

* * *

Tim found a statement about a self-help book on Friday. His announcement sparked quite a bit of excitement, but Jon barely got a paragraph in before realizing it wasn’t at all what they were looking for. Recording it didn’t feel right, words falling from his mouth awkwardly, the tape more of a hiss than a static. So he tried again on the computer, and easily recorded the nearly painfully benign story about the statement giver’s mother.

Martin looked into it more on Monday, to be thorough, and reported back that the mother had abandoned the home organization guide not long after the statement was given. She’d moved on to essential oils, then gotten a membership at a gym for several months, then joined a book club, then sold her house and got a flat in a bigger city. Her sudden lifestyle changes hadn’t been supernatural. They were just a lonely woman’s attempt to find control and comfort after her only daughter moved out of the country.

Jon felt a bit guilty for how desperately he wished it had been something more.

* * *

Tuesday evening, Jon was onto something.

Not something related to his own situation, sadly, but something all the same. He’d been going through a new section of the archives, and he’d decided to do it a bit differently than before. Rather than hauling a box back to his office to sort, he’d kept the statements in their original order on the shelves, marking subject matter and date given with sticky notes.

As he did so, he felt it: some kind of pattern.

He went back and marked them all again with their position, so he could move them to test theories without losing his original clues. After that, he decided there wasn’t nearly enough space in the stacks to keep track of what he was doing, so he’d need to move the section he was working on into the main office of the archives.

When he hauled the first box in and set it on the floor with a thump, he looked up to find his assistants watching him. Well, Tim and Martin; Sasha was always focused.

“Boss?” Tim said. “Please tell me you’re bringing that box in here because you’re  _ done _ with it.”

Jon frowned at him. “Actually, I’m just about to start testing out an organizational theory.”

“About to start?” Martin asked. “Jon, you do know it’s five till five, right?”

He hadn’t. Marking the files must have taken him longer than he’d thought.

Still.

“I have to do this now, Martin, or I’ll lose it. I suppose it’s better, then, that you’re all about to leave, so we’re not getting in each other’s way- Fuck.” Jon had forgotten, for a moment. “I leave with you.” He rubbed his temples, trying to figure out what to do. “Normally I’d just bring my work home, but I doubt we can bring five shelves of statements to my flat, and that might be long enough to lose it anyway.”

“Hey,” Martin replied, “if you really want to stay and do this, I don’t mind. Maybe I could help a little.”

“Really?” Jon asked. “Bringing me home must be annoying enough, I don’t want to make you stay at work all evening to do so.”

“First, it’s not annoying. Second, you’re not making me. Third, it’s fine! Honestly, you’ve been doing a great job working reasonable hours, even though I know that’s not your preference. If you’re excited about this and really think it’s best done now, I think you deserve a late night.”

Jon traced his fingers across each other. “If you’re sure.”

“Yep! Don’t mind at all!”

“Well, have fun!” Tim said, grinning, a sudden reminder of the presence of other people. “I’ll just pop out now before you turn this place into a maze. Sash?”

Sasha finally looked up, nodded and grabbed her bag and coat. Tim took a second to tidy his things, and then the two of them left.

* * *

Jon worked on those statements for hours.

Part of him felt a bit bad for keeping Martin there so long, but the rest of him was ecstatic. It had been ages since he’d been able to do this, just devote himself for as long as needed until he’d solved the puzzle in front of him. After months of work filled with delegation and distraction and dead ends, it was nice to just  _ organize _ something.

Occasionally he asked Martin to look through something or give a second opinion, but there was no spare chatter. Hopefully Martin didn’t mind how abrupt Jon was being, but if he did, he didn’t say. Jon decided not to worry, unless Martin spoke up; he trusted Martin that much.

And then, eventually, he had it. Not entirely, of course, and perhaps the pattern only applied to that section of shelving and no others, but… he  _ knew _ he was right.

“These,” he announced, shoving a small pile of statements at Martin. “These are the ones that won’t record.”

“Really?” Martin asked, eyes wide. “How do you know?”

Jon told him, and Martin nodded along. He probably didn’t actually understand — Jon knew he wasn’t the best at explaining when he was like this — but his attention and enthusiasm were appreciated all the same.

After he wound down, Martin replied, “That’s so great! Now, let’s clean this up so we can get going. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving!”

Jon took stock of himself: not faint at all, since he’d prepared a good set of lunches after visiting the farmer’s market with Martin again over the weekend, but perhaps a bit peckish. “I could eat,” he decided. “What time is it?”

“Jon, it’s past nine.”

“Ah. My apologies.”

“It’s fine, I said I was fine with staying! But let’s get out of here now, yeah?”

They didn’t chat much on the way back. Jon wasn’t anything like tired yet, but he was content to bask in satisfaction at a problem solved, and Martin seemed content to let him. The atmosphere was a bit odd, with the train so empty; Jon hadn’t gone anywhere this late on a weekday in ages.

It was nearly ten by the time they arrived at Jon’s flat, and before he could psyche himself out, Jon offered, “Would you like to come in for dinner? Since I made you stay so late, it seems fair to provide you with your missed meal.”

A moment of consideration, and Martin nodded. “Sure, if you want! That’s nice of you to offer.”

Jon’s hands fluttered as he led Martin inside.

“Is beef stew okay?” he asked, making his way to the kitchen. That would be easiest to reheat, since it was already so late, but of course he could find something else if Martin wasn’t a fan.

“Yeah, sounds good!” Martin replied, taking a seat at the small kitchen table.

Jon went about getting it ready rather self consciously, but when he glanced back, he saw Martin wasn’t watching him at all. Eyes closed, he leaned back in his chair, lips tilted slightly up. Tired? …Comfortable?

When the food was ready they ate quietly. Jon spent the whole meal glancing at Martin and away again, thinking about inviting him to spend the night — just so he wouldn’t have to go home on his own so late, of course. But would offering be more presumptuous than sending him away would be rude?

Martin caught him looking and the corners of his mouth tilted up again, eyes crinkling a bit, and Jon went ahead and asked.

“I was thinking, since it’s so late, by the time you get home you’d just go right to sleep and then turn right around to come back here and retrieve me, which just seems suboptimal, so I was thinking it might be more efficient for you to just stay overnight if you wanted to?”

Martin’s eyes widened, but the smile did too. “Oh! That would be- that would be really convenient, thank you!”

Jon nodded, relieved that it hadn’t been taken poorly or incorrectly, and perhaps a bit pleased as well. On to logistics, then. “I have a spare toothbrush you can use, in the first drawer of the bathroom counter. Feel free to take a shower as well, if you’d like, there’s a fresh towel hanging. The couch would be rather small for you, but I’ve fallen asleep on it before and it worked well enough for me, so you can take the bed if you’d like?”

“Oh!” Martin said again. “I’d hate to kick you out of your own bed, are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, it makes more sense this way. I’ll go change the sheets for you.” Jon quickly went to rinse his plate off and stack it neatly by the sink, and then to look for sheets; he wasn’t entirely sure where he even kept the spares.

He found them in the back of his closet after only ten minutes searching. Old sheets onto the couch, new sheets and spare quilt onto the bed, and he only had one proper bed pillow, so he put a case on a throw pillow for himself. By the time he was done, Martin had washed the dishes and made a pot of chamomile.

They sat at the table again to sip their tea. Martin complimented the meal, and Jon told him it was made with ingredients from their market trip, and Martin told him about a stew he’d made with what he’d gotten. Jon had expected to be self-conscious, having Martin at his flat so late, but it felt as natural as chatting on the bus. Perhaps more so, warm and comfortable in the small kitchen.

After his second cup, Martin stretched, and settled back in his chair a bit. “I think I’m about ready to turn in. D’you want to get ready for bed first? Since I’ll be in your room with your things.”

“Ah, yes,” Jon answered, and then, “I should warn you, the bedside alarm rings at seven. I could turn it off, or bring it to the living room with me?”

“You can just leave it! That’s about when I would wake up anyway, I’ll just make sure to wake you up as well when it goes off.”

Jon nodded in acknowledgement, then slipped off to his room to grab his pajamas. As he brushed his teeth, he thought about it: Martin waking him up, first thing in the morning. It would be quite different from his usual alarm.

Jon sat on the couch while Martin took his turn in the bathroom. When Martin was done, he flicked off the lights behind him, and paused at the doorway of Jon’s room. “Goodnight, Jon,” he said.

“Goodnight, Martin,” Jon replied, and he felt like he should add something else, but he had no idea what, so he didn’t.

Martin closed the bedroom door. Jon reached over to flick off the side table lamp and lay down. He wouldn’t normally sleep quite yet, but he’d actually gotten a decent amount of work done for the day, and he didn’t feel like he could concentrate on the biography he’d been reading lately. He was just so aware of Martin, in the other room. In  _ his _ room. In his bed, between his spare sheets.

What was Martin sleeping in? His options were limited, considering he definitely hadn’t come into work in the morning packed for a night away from home. Jon would have offered him spare pajamas, but with their respective sizes, that would only work the other way around.

Was he still wearing his work clothes? It would make sense, but it also seemed uncomfortable, not to mention it would get his outfit wrinkled. If he wanted to look more presentable tomorrow, then it was likely he was sleeping in just his pants. Perhaps an undershirt. Which was weird to think about, Martin, nearly undressed, in Jon’s bed, between his spare sheets. So he thought about something else instead, except that telling yourself not to think about something makes it impossible not to think about, even if it would have been only a passing thought if not for the note to self.

Was Martin asleep by now? He was the one who’d suggested they go to bed, but some people lie in bed for ages before they sleep, reading or texting or thinking. Was Martin on his phone, scrolling through some site? Looking up knitting patterns? Writing poetry? In Jon’s room, in his bed, between his spare sheets?

Jon fell asleep eventually, but it took a while.

* * *

The next morning, it was quite obvious that Martin was wearing the same clothes to work as the day before. He had one of his brighter sweaters on, a rather distinct shade of salmon, and the collar of his button up was a bit creased. Jon tried not to get stuck again on wondering whether that meant he had worn it to bed after all.

Needless to say, when Tim entered the archives and saw him, he wolf-whistled.

“You  _ know _ we stayed late last night,” Jon complained. “It just ended up being later than I’d thought it would be by the time I finished, and so it made more sense for Martin to stay at my flat for the night than to go home only to come right back. It was just efficient, Tim.”

“Dunno why you’re making excuses to me, I didn’t say anything, Boss,” Tim said, tone too exaggerated to be sincere.

By then Tim had reached his desk, so Martin didn’t have to move far to lightly smack the back of his head in response, scolding him with a smile. “You did and you know it, at least own up to your teasing.”

_ “Well, _ if you want me to tease,” Tim replied, eyebrows waggling. He spun his chair to the side and collapsed into it, leaning back hard with a hand to his forehead. “Oh, how scandalous! Martin and Jon, arriving at the same time? Whatever could it mean?”

Jon rolled his eyes at the dramatics, though he didn’t truly mind. It was nice, to fall into banter like this. Though he still had to point out, “We always arrive at the same time. Martin is literally escorting me to work every day.”

“Oh, how romantic!”

Jon tried to come up with some retort, but Martin beat him to it. “Tim,” he said, drawing it out to nearly a whine, “don’t taunt me.”

“There there, I’ll have mercy,” Tim replied with a laugh. “Anyway, I can't believe you two had a sleepover and didn’t invite me!”

“You’re right, we had leftover stew and then fell asleep, it was very exciting and you really missed out,” Martin deadpanned.

“Hey, Jon’s cooking is good, I  _ did _ miss out! Jon, how come you never cook for me anymore!”

They both knew why they’d stopped hanging out, so Jon figured he wasn’t supposed to actually answer. Instead, he offered, “I do have plenty of the stew, I’ve been bringing it for lunch. I could share?”

“No, no.” Tim shook his head. “I demand something new, so I can watch you make it! Martin got to watch you cook!”

“It was already leftover, I was only heating it up on the stove-”

“And I bet you looked great doing it,” Tim interrupted.

Oh, they really  _ were _ friends again. Jon smiled a bit, despite himself. He’d long since learned to take Tim’s flirtations as friendly jokes, so while the comment would have been off putting from anyone else, it was rather reassuring to hear from him.

“Dinner party, dinner party!” Tim continued with the cadence of a chant.

“I think it’s only a dinner  _ party _ if you have more than two friends over, Tim,” Jon replied.

“Oh? Dinner date, then?” Tim grinned, eyes crinkling, and Jon scoffed.

Tim laughed and continued, “For real though, we’ve gotten lunch as a group, but you two get to spend so much time together outside of work! We should all actually hang out sometime.”

Martin hummed. “New Year’s Eve  _ is _ coming up… and I think it’s actually on the weekend?”

Tim gasped, and then turned wide eyes on Jon, nearly bouncing in his seat.

“I suppose that is an appropriate holiday to celebrate with an evening gathering,” Jon admitted.

“Or, hey, even an actual sleepover! I was joking about inviting me next time, but also, that would be fun? Only if you want to of course, no pressure, but…”

Martin shrugged. “I’m good either way.”

“That does make more sense than going home so late at night, or cutting it off early.” Jon considered it another moment, and decided, “Alright, I’m amenable. Though I don’t know if I have room for both of you in my flat overnight.”

“I’ve got a decent open plan living room,” Tim said, “but the couch is kinda shit for lying on. The big bed is really the only place to sleep.”

“I have an air mattress I could bring?” Martin suggested.

“Oh, perfect! My place then?” Tim asked, looking back and forth between the others for confirmation.

Martin looked to Jon, who nodded, and then said, “Sounds good!”

“I could make dinner,” Jon offered. A bit abrupt, but Tim  _ had _ mentioned his cooking.

“Oh my god! Really? You don’t actually have to!”

“Yes, no, it just seems fair, with you providing the place and Martin providing the mattress. Although I  _ will _ be bringing my own ingredients. Not that I don’t trust you,” and the words were out of his mouth before he’d really thought about them so he quickly qualified, “to do the grocery shopping, that is, I’m just particular about my ingredients, and it’s nice to know some of what I’ll be working with, if I’ll be in an unfamiliar kitchen, and-”

“Yeah, sure,” Tim said easily, skipping over the mention of the fraught topic of trust. “I’m getting the booze though!”

“Don’t go overboard,” Jon sighed, “there’s just the three of us.”

“No worries, it’s never a waste to restock the pantries a bit, and I’ll pick up some mixers too. Let me kn- Um, you can let me know, if you have any requests?”

“I’m not too picky,” Martin replied.

Jon followed with “You know me,” trusting — not, not  _ trusting, _ just, assuming — that Tim remembered their nights out, back before everything.

“Alright alright, bartender’s choice! Let’s see… What’s something fun for New Year’s…” and Tim wandered off to presumably research gimmicky drinks.

Martin smiled at Jon. “I’m so glad we’re doing this! It’ll be great to have somewhere safe that you can go have fun, get out of the house a little and not have to be on guard the whole time.”

Jon winced a bit at the reminder, but — it  _ should _ be safe. Even if Martin was wrong about Tim, he would be there if Tim tried to pull anything. So, hoping Martin hadn’t caught his unease, Jon gave him a smile back.

* * *

Tim was chatty and excited all week.

He belatedly invited Sasha, but she declined, citing plans with her boyfriend. Jon tried not to let on how relieved he was about that. He knew it was a bit unfair to have a holiday party with the rest of her coworkers without inviting her, and he was trying to trust her too, but — he was still working on Tim. He’d almost made his own excuses to avoid the party, once or twice throughout the week, and while he’d managed to talk himself back into going, there was no way he’d be able to relax with  _ both _ Tim and Sasha there. So. Better that Sasha was busy.

Tim picked Jon up at four, on the last day of the year. A bit early for an evening party, but Jon had been a bit ambitious with his cooking plans, and needed the time.

Once dinner was in the oven, Tim suggested they move the furniture around.

“I figure the best place for the mattress is about… here,” he pointed. “We’ll just have to scoot the couch back, and the coffee table up by the TV stand.”

“Shouldn’t we wait until it’s closer to time to sleep, so the room is usable for the evening?”

“Oh, it’ll be fine, we can just sit on the mattress! Way better than trying to push stuff around and figure out air pumps when we’re all drunk at two AM.”

After the house was arranged and decorated to Tim’s satisfaction — he’d gotten sparkly streamers for the occasion and everything — it was time to pick up Martin. Jon had sat shotgun earlier, but this time he went to the backseat, so Martin could have the leg room up front.

“Wow Jon, you’re not even going to sit up here on the way?” Tim asked.

“By you? And give you more opportunities to tease me? No thanks.” Jon would’ve made such a joke without a second thought, before, but with everything, there was a chance Tim would read too much into it…

But he must not have, because he just replied, “I can make fun of you just as well from back there, you know. And I'm just saying, it’s nice of you to leave the front for our dear Marto, but consider this: you could be getting it warm for him!”

Jon scrunched up his nose. That sounded like the opposite of a favor, so he said as much, and Tim laughed as he finally started the car and got going.

Jon texted Martin as they pulled up to his flat, and it was less than a minute till Jon caught sight of him leaving the building. He had a duffle bag over one shoulder, and another bag that must have been the air mattress, and he wasn’t dressed very warmly despite the cold; made sense, since he’d only be outside for a moment. Just dark leggings and a softly blue-green turtleneck. As he got closer, Jon decided the shade worked well with his grey eyes.

Martin opened the back door first, to put his bags in next to Jon. Jon thought he should say hello or something, but he was still looking at Martin’s eyes, so it took a moment, and by the time Jon had gathered his words Martin was closing the door and slipping into the front seat and replying to Tim’s joyful greeting. That was fine, though. They had the whole night ahead of them.

* * *

They had cider with dinner, a flavor that complimented the meal just as Tim had promised, but the real drinks came out afterwards. Not that Jon was sure what the real drinks were; Tim got fancy when he had occasion, and Jon was already a bit fuzzy from the cider. He just sipped the orange concoction he was handed, found it fruity and bubbly and without too much of a burn, and decided that was good enough not to question. He’d missed Tim’s drinks.

They all sat on the mattress rather than the couch, so they could set their drinks on the coffee table. It wasn’t anything close to midnight yet, so Tim put on The Great British Bake Off, pointing out which bakers were the most interesting this season. They all quickly latched onto their own favorites. Jon cheered when his pick won the technical challenge, and Martin nearly cried when a young lady helped the sweet old man next to her mix a new dough when his first batch fell apart.

As the night wore on, Jon melted. His drink had been sweet and smooth and he could feel himself following suit, all golden bubbles, all liquid, sprawling across Tim and Martin like he’d been spilled there. Martin made a noise and shifted away, so Jon let him, and then buried his face in his chest instead.

“Woah there, tiger,” Tim chuckled, pulling Jon onto his lap instead. One of his hands found Jon’s hair, and Jon happily collapsed into the light petting.

“Wow,” Martin said, “no wonder he doesn’t drink at work events.”

“LMAO, yeah, he’s kind of a lightweight cuddleslut? Two shots and he goes from hissing alley cat to purring kitten.”

Jon could’ve taken offense at that if he wanted to, but he was cozy and Tim wasn't wrong besides, so he didn’t even bother opening his eyes. He just replied with a deadpan “Meow,” and Tim and Martin both cracked up. Jon laughed with them, trailing off into a happy sigh when Tim gave him a good scritch.

“Here, will you behave if I hand you to Martin for a second?” Tim asked.

Jon made a face at the idea of Tim leaving, and then nodded in agreement at the request, and then paused and mumbled, “Wait, behave how?”

“Don’t-” Tim paused and started again. “Like no getting handsy, or, I dunno, biting.”

“I don’t get  _ handsy,” _ Jon complained. Tim gently pushed him towards Martin, and he went over easily.

“Uhuh, sure,” Tim replied, crawling to the edge of the mattress to go do whatever he had to abandon Jon for.

“But you do bite?” Martin asked.

Jon looked up at his face; smiling, probably, though it looked silly from this angle.

“Sometimes,” Jon finally answered, with a little shrug that sent him further sideways. “I’m sure you’ve seen my pens for sure. Don’t bite my nails though, they get all eugh.”

Martin hummed. “Makes sense. I’m a bit of a nail-biter myself.”

“You should cut them instead, that’s what I do,” Jon let him know. “And then they’re short and I don’t have to bite ‘em and I bite my pens instead.”

“Good thinking,” Martin said. “Though pens probably aren’t the best either. Have you thought about getting something meant for chewing? Like… Y’know, one of those necklaces?”

Jon made a face. “I have to be profreshional. Pofess.. Pruh….”

“Professional.”

“Yes, that.”

“You can totally be profression- fuck, now I’m doing it. You can be pro- _ fes _ -sion-al with a chewy necklace. They make them in fancy colors and everything,” Martin explained, looking down at Jon seriously.

“Fancy colors?”

“Like… grey, I guess?”

"Why are we talking about grey?” Tim asked, flopping onto the mattress hard enough to send Jon bouncing a bit. “That’s not a very party color.”

Martin shook his head, with enough force to send his hair flying messily across his face. “That’s the point, Tim! It’s to be profre- god damn it- oh wow, is that a pipe?”

“Yep! Pretty, isn’t he?”

Jon craned his head to see, and sure enough, Tim was holding a pink quartz piece with the bowl already loaded. As Jon watched, he flicked the lighter in his other hand, lit the weed, and took a hit.

Jon squinted at him. “You know those are toxic sometimes. The crystal pipes.”

Tim exhaled, sending smoke curling towards Jon, and cleared his throat. “Live fast, die young, bad girls do it well, Jonathan.” Martin started to say something, but Tim cut him off with, “Also, I trust my source on this one. Pure quartz, no dyes, totally safe. You want some, Martin?”

Martin shifted, a shrug or a nod or something, and Tim scooted closer, taking another hit. But then instead of passing the pipe, he motioned with his other hand. Jon turned his head so he could keep watching as Tim leaned over him, and Martin tilted down to meet him, lips touching as Tim shared his smoke.

Jon stared. Sometimes he was put off by lips and spit and the messy realities of the body, but right now, they were mesmerizing. Tim and Martin were beautiful against each other, beautiful pulling apart and breathing out more of that lovely rich haze. Jon wasn’t even in the mood for a cigarette — well, except that he always was — but that smoke… Perhaps a bit of weed would be close enough…

Jon didn’t realize he was reaching out until Tim pulled the pipe back and said, “Nope, nuh-uh. You get all paranoid when you’re high and you do  _ not _ need any help with that these days.”

“But Martin got some,” Jon complained.

“Because he’s not a paranoid mess,” Tim replied.

“But that’s not  _ my _ fault, I wanna shotgun too.” Jon could tell he was whining, but he couldn’t be bothered not to.

Tim hummed. “No weed for you, but maybe a little… Here, stay- Fuck. I mean. It would be helpful if you’d stay there for a second?”

Jon stayed, slightly propped up against Martin, Tim warm on his other side. Either the Bake-Off or some other show was still playing on the TV. The lighter clicked, and a spark flared, and the flame licked at the bowl of the pipe for a second before the weed caught and Tim dropped the lighter as he pulled. The moment stretched, a small eternity of steady inhale and indistinct recorded voices. Then Tim set the pipe down on the couch and took Martin’s face in both hands and kissed him — shotgunned him.

Martin coughed when they finally moved apart, and Tim smiled, letting a stray wisp of smoke escape from the corner of his mouth. Then he looked down to Jon and took his face both in hands and kissed  _ him. _ Just a gentle press of open lips. A sharing of breath.

Jon breathed in, sudden and eager, something like a gasp or a backwards sigh. When Tim let him go, he held it for another moment, then turned his head away and blew plain air out into the room. Muscle memory and wishful thinking and gratitude for the charade.

“Alright!” Tim said. “Now it’s fair, yeah?”

Jon hummed in agreement, content enough with the outcome that it was hard to remember that he’d wanted something else.

“Hey, it’s almost midnight,” Martin commented, and Tim shot up and scrambled over to the TV to set up the countdown. It took a second for Jon to reorient himself, without Tim there, but it wasn’t long before he was back, close and warm.

“So,” Tim asked as he settled into his spot, “who’s gonna give me a midnight kiss?”

Jon looked up at him, and then over to Martin, and then frowned. “There’s an odd number.”

Tim hummed in question.

“Someone won’t get a kiss,” Jon explained.

Tim and Martin both laughed at that. Jon felt like he should mind, because he hadn’t meant to make a joke, but he really didn’t. Mind, that is. They weren’t making fun of him.

“What if we did a sort of, kiss train?” Martin suggested, voice still edged with giggles.

Jon stared at him.

“You know, like, if you kissed Tim’s cheek, and he kissed me, and I uh, kissed you, or some other order just in a circle you know-”

“Oh my god,” Tim interrupted. “That’s so dumb, let’s do it! Jon, quick, sit up!”

Jon happily complied, scrambling to move his body around into some sort of upright position. He almost toppled over at one point, but he managed to get himself kneeling by leaning up against Martin, then scrunched up his face as he tried to remember his part. “So… I do Tim?”

“Yeah, Hon, if you want,” Tim answered, as he crawled around to sit in front of Jon and Martin.

Jon nodded and leaned in a little, getting ready, eyes darting back and forth from Tim to the countdown on the screen behind him.

Five…

Martin shifted closer, and Tim grabbed Jon’s arm for a second to make sure he didn’t lose his balance.

Four…

Their legs were all bumping together, overlapped, tangled.

Three…

Jon wet his lips, then rubbed the back of his hand across them.

Two…

Tim tilted towards Martin, and Jon swayed to follow.

One…

Jon leaned forwards.

Zero.

Warm pockmarked skin against his lips, and searing soft lips against his cheek, and Jon had forgotten, so focused on his role of kissing Tim, that Martin would be kissing him too. After a moment, Tim and Martin moved away, and Jon hummed, a short, contented sound.

“Happy New Year!” Tim exclaimed, almost a shout in comparison to the quiet of the moment before.

“Happy New Year,” Martin said, voice softer, farther away.

“‘Py New Year,” Jon repeated. He sat back on his heels, then overbalanced into a sprawl.

The ambient noise changed, presumably Tim changing channels again. There was a pop, and a bottle passed over Jon to Martin: the classic celebratory champagne. Jon barely considered going for a sip himself before rejecting the idea. He was comfortable, after all, and probably definitely still bubbly enough without it.

Tim and Martin were chatting about something. Fingers brushed through Jon’s hair. He kept his eyes closed and sighed happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> Recreational drug use: Alcohol is consumed, weed is smoked, and there's just a bit of canoodling under the influence.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been a bit busy, so I'll probably be going closer to one and a half weeks between updates now, instead of 6/7 days like I've been doing. I still have a bit of a buffer written, but not as much as I'd wanted to have at this point. So I hope slowing updates will give me a chance to get ahead again!
> 
> It's funny, you all have been so patient and kind, but I'M impatient to get it all written, lol! So hopefully my busy evenings will settle down soon x.x

Jon woke up warm. His shoulder hurt, trapped at an odd angle, so he pushed at the weight across his torso until he could roll to the other side. There was more movement for a second, not from him, and something settled on his legs. It was nice. Jon snuggled closer, and went back to sleep.

When he woke up again, it was to light across his face and the smell of sausage. He tried to reach to his bedside table for his phone, but of course he met human warmth instead: Martin tangled up in a sheet next to him. He looked to the other side, found it empty, and realized Tim was probably making breakfast.

Jon patted his pockets for his phone, then the blankets around him, then found it up on the couch. He blearily unlocked it and tapped through his notifications.

Several articles later, Tim interrupted with an, “Oh, you're awake!”

Jon looked up. Tim stood at the side of the mattress, hair damp from a recent shower, a spatula in one hand. “How do you want your eggs?”

Jon locked his phone and stretched, made his wobbly way around Martin and to the edge of the mattress where he could stand up. “Scrambled is fine. Don’t add milk,” Jon instructed. Then, an afterthought, “I could make tea?”

“Nah, it’s fine, Martin’s so particular — if he doesn’t wake up soon, I’ll just do it.”

Jon made a sleepy sound of discontent, low in his throat. “Can’t you just teach me how?” he asked, more a complaining mutter than a question.

“Nope!” Tim replied, too cheerful for the time of day. “I’m sure Martin would rather teach you himself, when it’s the right time!”

Tim said it like he meant something, but Jon had no idea what. Didn’t seem worth figuring out either, especially when he’d just woken up, so he just shrugged and let it go.

They had eggs and sausages and earl grey tea, and pancakes with syrup and whipped cream. Martin woke up not long after they started eating and made himself a sausage omelette before joining them. They chatted through breakfast, about nothing at all, kept talking long after everyone was done eating.

Jon didn’t put a lot of superstitious stake in New Year’s, but it  _ was _ sort of lovely to imagine that this would set the tone for the rest of the year.

* * *

So of course, the next week was shit.

Tim must have taken advantage of the extra alcohol in his flat on Sunday evening, because he was obviously quite hungover come Monday. If they were still back in research, Jon would have just rolled his eyes and helped him out, but now Jon was his  _ boss. _ It was his job to make sure Tim did his job. Tim did not at all appreciate Jon’s attempts, though, and made his displeasure known through eye rolls and scoffs and moaning about his headache.

It didn’t help, either, that Jon was still feeling a bit overwhelmed from Saturday’s party himself. It had been fun at the time, and it had been nice to think back on from the quiet of a Sunday afternoon in his own flat. But in the archives on a Monday morning? Every dramatic complaint from Tim set his teeth on edge, and even the new, quiet light bulbs were a bother, light too bright and stark.

Martin seemed to be trying to keep the peace through the morning, but even that didn’t last; right before lunch he showed Jon the summary reports he’d been working on for the previous week, and every single one was formatted incorrectly. Jon had almost forgotten how bad Martin could be at his job, but apparently, he was set on continuing to remind him.

Jon tried not to be  _ too _ harsh as he pointed out the problems, but he doubted he was very successful. It was just — the new organizational system made so much  _ sense, _ Jon had  _ shown _ everybody, and he’d even asked Sasha to help Martin get started on the reports — so how had Martin  _ still _ messed it up? God. He felt bad for being so annoyed, but an extra layer of guilt didn’t exactly do anything to help. He sequestered himself in his office for the rest of the day, trying to at least not make things worse, but the commute home was still miserably quiet.

The next day was a little better. Jon didn’t say anything about Tim’s lack of productivity the day before, and Tim didn’t say anything about the unprofessional way Jon had lectured him on responsibility, and that was as good as a set of apologies. By the end of the day Martin had even gotten all the reports redone correctly, with Tim’s help. Jon did apologize to Martin when he brought them in, for snapping at him for an honest mistake, and Martin accepted it with a smile.

Wednesday morning, though, Jon recorded a statement about spiders. That would be unsettling enough, but he’d forgotten he’d done a tape recorder statement the day before as well, so the rest of the day was spent feeling like  _ he’d _ cleared out Tim’s liquor cabinet.

And  _ then, _ Thursday.

It had started off well enough. Actively good, even, with a statement-giver managing to hack into Gertrude’s laptop. But then Jon had a question for someone in research.

Martin and Tim were both busy, but Jon figured it would be easy enough to pop in and ask his  _ simple _ question. And the question part was! But after answering him, Eric said, “Ugh, Sims, I know you’re down in the Archives these days, but you were always the best at figuring out these sprawling cases. Don’t suppose you could help me out for a second? Fix this mess, you’re our only hope!”

So Jon spent the next  _ hour _ fixing Eric’s fucking mess.

He’d been planning to text Martin, if anything like this came up, but he just wasn’t the type to automatically take his phone with him, so he’d forgotten it in the office. He thought about trying to go back to the archives himself, but dwelling on the thought made him uncomfortable. He was supposed to be sorting out the research case, after all, and such a detour wouldn’t be very helpful.

The worst part was, it  _ was _ the sort of work he enjoyed. Eric was right, Jon would have loved to have been assigned this case back in the day, and he was doing a good job putting the pieces together. And even as he ground his teeth at the fact that his own work was languishing, it felt so good to be helping, like he’d been told to.

When he made it back to the archives, Martin and Tim both turned on him with worried expressions, and Jon could not stand the thought of explaining to them that he apparently needed to be minded twenty-four-seven like a goddamn toddler. So before they could speak, he snapped, “I’ll be busy for the rest of the day, don’t bother me,” and stormed into his office, closing the door hard behind him.

* * *

Knock knock knoknock knock, knock knock.

Tim opened the door.

“I  _ said _ not to bother me,” Jon informed him, as if a repetition of a command Tim had already decided to ignore would help at all.

Predictably, instead of turning around and leaving, Tim closed the door and made for the extra chair. “Wow, okay,” he said as he sat, “sorry for trying to do my  _ job _ instead of catering to your paranoia. I know you’re worried, but I’m not going to fuck with you, and if you want all of us to just sit around twiddling our thumbs until you’re done moping-”

“I don't-”

“No, you’re right,” Tim continued, bowling over Jon’s interruption. “We  _ should _ just sit around, shouldn’t we? It’s not like we’re doing anything useful anyway. Research felt like something at least, but this? What are we even accomplishing!”

Jon took a moment to process the subject change. “We’re… we’re organizing the archives?”

“Why?” Tim demanded.

“So that we can reference the statements. And understand what’s happening.”

“Why! What’s the point of that? Don’t say it’s to help people, because out of all of the shit in these archives, we haven’t found  _ anything _ to help with  _ your _ curse.”

“Well, of course it’s difficult to find a particular thing, since they’re not organized yet,” Jon said.

“And they’re never going to be!” Tim shot back. “This place is a century of mess, and we still have no idea what we’re doing! And look, we do all of this follow up, and then what do we do with it? Just write it down and move on? What’s the point! We know these people went through some fucked shit and we don't even tell them anything about it, let alone help them, or even use the information to help anyone else! You’re  _ cursed _ and we just, skim through a couple stacks and shrug and move on? This place is fucking useless. You know, you wouldn’t get stuck doing whatever anyone here tells you to do if you just quit.”

Jon stared at him. That was the second time he’d mentioned the curse. Was this rant about  _ Jon? _ He wasn’t sure what to do about that, so he just explained, “Quitting wouldn’t help. I’d need some sort of job, and at least here I’m head of the department and have my own office.”

“This job is where you  _ got _ cursed, though,” Tim argued. “Who knows what else could happen here? Even if leaving doesn’t fix what’s already happened, still seems smart to skedaddle before shit gets worse!”

“If you’re so worried, you could leave,” Jon pointed out.

“Wow, so paranoid you’re trying to get rid of me, now?”

“No, Timothy, I’m just your friend and you’re right, this place is dangerous. Maybe you should quit before you get cursed too. You want to leave right now, I’ll make sure you get the rest of the month’s paycheck.”

“I…” Tim hesitated. Opened his mouth, closed it again. “No, I can’t. I can’t leave you here like this. What if Martin has to go home early again, it’ll happen eventually, you’ll need someone else to help.”

“I’d figure it out,” Jon replied, tone sharp again. “I’m not helpless.”

“You shouldn’t have to, I just- I have to stay for now. But… maybe if we do manage to fix this… We could both quit? Just think a- wait, fuck, sorry, um… I think you should think about it.”

Jon slumped out of his indignant posture and rubbed at his temples. He wasn’t upset that Tim had started to give a command; rather, it was frustrating that circumnavigating the curse was something his friends had to worry about at all. They really were just all stuck being miserable here.

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Sure. I’ll ask for funds for a project, and then we can take the cash and run instead. Maybe Martin will come too.”

“And Sasha,” Tim added.

“And Sasha,” Jon agreed, because there really was no reason not to.

It was quiet for a moment, just Jon tapping lightly on the desk and Tim’s shoes scraping on the floor in small kicks.

“What were you going to ask me about, anyway?” Jon finally remembered to ask.

“Nothing. I don't remember, and I don’t really care.” Tim stood up and added, “I’ll email you when I can be bothered to figure it out.”

“Alright.”

Tim gave a thumbs up with a small smile that didn’t seem happy at all, and left.

* * *

As soon as the clock struck five, Jon told Martin and Tim he wanted to talk to them, about Gertrude.

Martin winced. “Um, will it be quick? I’m watching my neighbor’s dog for the week, I have to get back home right away to take care of her.”

“Then let’s all go!” Tim suggested. “Your flat is as good a place as any to solve the mystery of our predecessor's death.”

Tim and Martin looked to Jon for approval, and he nodded. It worked out well enough to have this conversation somewhere away from the institute.

Tim beamed. “Cool! You two took the bike today, right? I’d offer to give you a ride to Martin’s, but honestly, who in their right mind would choose a car over that. No offense Honey, you’re wonderful, but you’re no motorcycle.”

He looked dejected enough that Jon was tempted to offer to ride with him instead, but honestly, he was right. The motorcycle was rather exciting, even after all this time, and the bite of a barely-warm-enough winter day only added to the thrill.

It turned out he got a chance to ride with Tim anyway; as soon as they all arrived at Martin’s, he had to go walk the dog, and Tim volunteered himself and Jon to get takeout while they waited. So Tim drove them to the Indian place, and the warmth of the car was nice with the night time chill settling in.

An hour later, butter chicken and naan all finished, Jon took Getrude’s laptop out of his bag.

“It’s unlocked,” he announced. “Let’s see what’s on it.”

“Oh my god, Boss, you haven’t looked for yourself yet?” Tim asked, all overly-warm amazement. “You waited for us?”

“Yes. It seemed more efficient.” Before Tim could reply, Jon opened the laptop and typed in the password that Tessa Winters had left on a sticky note.

The desktop was plain. Default background, standard shortcuts. Jon opened up the files menu and got to work.

* * *

“Wow,” Martin said, still scrolling through Gertrude’s email history. “We were really wrong about her, weren’t we?”

“She sounds like she’s actually pretty damn cool?” Tim added, amazed.

Jon tapped at the extension cord they had the laptop charging on. “I’m wondering why she did so much traveling. Was she really that committed to statement follow up?”

“I didn’t know international travel was even  _ allowed _ on the Institute’s funds. How come you don’t let us go anywhere fun, Boss?”

Jon paused his tapping to give Tim a flat look. “I’m sure the budget approval would be up to Elias, rather than myself. And even if it was, I don’t trust that you’d actually be working.”

Tim snapped his fingers. “Foiled again!”

“So, what does all of this mean for us?” Martin asked. “Is any of this useful?

Jon frowned. “I don’t know if any of the specifics are connected to her murder, but the general picture we’re getting is definitely interesting. She was up to  _ something, _ and that must be relevant.”

“I wish we just knew a bit about what she knew,” Tim complained. “If she died because of some weird plot, that’s a great thing to know  _ not _ to repeat, but what about the problems we already have? I don’t really think dynamite will help with a curse. Although…” He tilted his head, finger to his chin, the picture of deep thought.

Martin shot Tim a look. “No dynamite. There’s gotta be something we can do, though, some angle we haven’t considered.”

Tim looked right back. “What angle? What’s left? I asked around in artifact storage, and they didn’t have anything logged with similar properties. Objects that make you do shit, sure, but always specific shit, not this sort of general anything-you’re-told. We’re already combing through the archives as fast as we can. Where else can we even look?”

It was quiet for a moment. Then Martin asked, “Hey, Jon, where’d you find the book again?”

“Uh, in the tunnels.”

Tim whistled. “Wow, I don’t think I ever heard that part of the story. Do you think there might be something else in the tunnels, then, Martin?”

“I don’t know, but it seems worth a search. There might be related material.”

Oh. That… was a good point. “I did find the book in a filing box, along with several file folders and other things,” Jon told them.

Tim whipped his head around to look at him. “Oh my god, really? And you didn’t think that might be relevant information?”

Jon dropped the cord and leaned forward, defensive. “I forgot until just now! At the time, the first thing I investigated had trapped me into focusing on it and only it for the rest of the day, so sorry that that meant ignoring the rest!”

Martin reached over to smooth Jon’s fingers away from where they were digging into his palms. “Hey, it’s fine, that makes sense. I’m just glad we’re thinking about it now!”

“So… Back to the tunnels?” Tim asked.

Jon flexed his hands, careful of his nails this time. “I don’t have the key anymore,” he admitted.

“Then just make Elias let you in,” Tim replied, like it was obvious.

“He did give you the CCTV,” Martin said.

Jon shook his head. “To help with my paranoia. Asking him to help with my curse requires telling him about the curse, which I do  _ not _ want to do.”

“It’s just, he  _ is _ in charge of an institute that’s dedicated to studying the paranormal. Maybe he could help?”

Jon moved his hands a bit faster, shaking them out. He did not want to get Elias involved. Yes, maybe part of that was his paranoia, but most of it was the perfectly reasonable fact that every additional person who knew about the curse was an additional bit of danger. Not to mention, he was still fairly new to his position as Head Archivist, and the last thing he wanted was for his boss to think he was incompetent or otherwise unable to carry out his work.

“Nah,” Tim said, before Jon could get his thoughts in order well enough to argue. “Elias has bastard energy, I’m with Jon on this one. We can just say it’s to help with his paranoia again.”

“Oh, sure, that works!” Martin replied, expression brightening into an easy smile. “Gertrude’s body was down there, after all. That’s why you were even exploring in the first place, right, Jon?”

Jon nodded, catching one of his hands with the other to still them.

Martin nodded back at him, said, “So we can just say it’s about Gertrude again!” and that was that.

The conversation started drifting to other topics, and Jon relaxed into it. Eventually, it got late enough that Tim tapped out. He offered Jon a ride home, but Jon hesitated.

“Well… Forgive me if this is presumptuous, Martin, you can obviously say no, but I was thinking I might as well stay the night?”

“Ohoh, don’t let me interrupt then!” Tim interrupted, suddenly standing from his spot on the couch. “I’ll just get out of your hair, have fun!”

“Yes, of course you can stay,” Martin said, tone dry. Tim was already halfway to the door, shooting them finger guns the whole way. “I’ll just go set up the air mattress, then? You can have the bed, of course.”

“No, no,” Jon replied, “I’m fine with the air mattress.”

Martin frowned, brow furrowing. “But when I stayed at your flat, I got the bed. So you should get the bed here.”

Jon frowned back. “That was because you’re too tall for my couch. But you  _ have _ another bed here, so there’s no reason for me to encroach on your space and kick you out.”

“It’s not a proper bed, though, it’s inflatable, it’s not the same at all,” Martin insisted. “It wouldn’t be fair for you to always get the worse spot, and I really don’t mind.”

Jon rolled his eyes, but he could feel a fond smile creeping up on him. Martin was truly too giving. “We slept on it at Tim’s and it was perfectly serviceable,” Jon reminded him. “I refuse to take your bed when there’s absolutely no reason to, just because you think it would be fair.”

Martin’s expression changed. Eyebrows up instead of down. “Oh, of course, obviously I don’t mean to force you to- to sleep in my bed, if you’re not comfortable with that.”

“Ah, no, I’d-”  _ be perfectly comfortable sleeping in your bed, _ he’d been going to say, before realizing how that might sound. He scrambled for something else. “Um, it’s truly just that I think this makes more sense.”

“Yes, alright, fair enough. I’ll just, go set up the air mattress, then. For you.”

Martin scrambled off to retrieve it. Jon smiled and pushed up a sleeve to softly trace around his scars while he waited.

* * *

Elias gave Jon a key to the tunnels on Tuesday. He warned Jon to be careful, and Jon assured him that he would. As soon as Elias was out of the room, Jon wanted to start the search, but Tim and Martin insisted he wait for them. Jon knew he’d never convince them otherwise, so he just tried to convince himself the help was worth the delay.

That night, Jon was so antsy, he knew he would have extra difficulty falling asleep. A year ago he would have used that as an excuse to work late into the night; this time, though, he went to bed just past eleven, so he wouldn’t have to text Martin and worry him. He tossed and turned as expected at first, anxious and excited, but actually managed to fall asleep within the hour.

The next day, they went down into the tunnels on their lunch break. No one was quite happy about it, but it was the best compromise they could come to. Jon had insisted they not use work hours for the task; Martin hadn’t wanted to do it before work, saying they could all use their rest; and Tim had pointed out that even though going after hours wouldn’t make a difference in the tunnels themselves, it would definitely affect the response time should they run into trouble and need help. So, lunch break it was.

They all came prepared. Between the three of them they had eight torches, enough extra batteries to swap out each torch’s twice, four pairs of gloves, seven plastic water bottles and three reusables, a box of granola bars, and a crowbar.

So it was kind of anticlimactic when they found the spiderwebbed room after only ten or so minutes of wandering.

Jon immediately went for the filing box.

“Jon,” Martin called, “be- I hope you’re being careful!”

Jon replied over his shoulder. “Yes, yes, I’m not an idiot.”

“Coulda fooled me on that one,” Tim said as he caught up with Jon, who elbowed him in the ribs for it. Tim laughed, completely unphased, and gave Jon a light tap on the shoulder in return. Jon rubbed at his shoulder and tried to scowl, though he couldn’t stop the corners of a smile from trying to make themselves known. Tim had always poked fun at Jon, back in research, for his complete lack of skill in friendly slapfests.

By the time Jon remembered what they were doing, Martin had pulled on his gloves and started going through the box.

“No more books,” he reported, “and nothing else in here seems cursed, as far as I can tell. The other box just has a couple tapes, and then there’s statements in the folders, and some other scattered notes.”

Jon hurried to his side and held out his hand. “Statements, perfect, I’ll go through those now.”

Martin hesitated for a moment, but then shrugged and handed them over. “Guess I’ve never seen a cursed statement, so go ahead.”

Jon muttered to himself as he skimmed through them. “Statement of Shira Letterman, regarding an impossible fire… Statement regarding the ghost of their grandmother… Regarding a dentist… Regarding… A book that made him listen to everyone!” Jon shoved the rest of the statements back towards Martin and waved his find at Tim. “This is it, this is a statement about the book!”

Tim whooped, and Martin packed everything back in the box to bring up with them, and Jon led the way back. He was  _ long _ past ready to record this statement.

* * *

“Jon, lunch breaks are called that for a reason _. _ There are eight minutes left, and I expect us to spend that time having lunch.”

Jon took in a heavy breath, irritated, but when he let it out he made himself say, “Fine. As soon as the break is over, though, I’m recording.”

Tim looked up from his own lunch. “Boss, it’s eight minutes. I’m probably not going to be done eating by then, and you definitely won’t be: I know those leftovers you’re holding will take a solid couple minutes in the microwave.”

“I’ll just eat it cold,” Jon grumbled.

“No, you won’t,” Martin told him. “Lunch is important. We all need to eat, and you probably don’t want chewing sounds on your recording, right? So if you’re going to record it first thing, you’ll need to wait until we’re all actually finished with our food.”

Jon stomped to the microwave. “Fine.”

“I know this statement is really important, but it’s waited this long and it can wait another twenty minutes, okay? I promise it’ll be better not to start this project on an empty stomach.”

Jon pulled the lid off of his tupperware with a bit more force than necessary. He got it into the microwave, but then just stared at the numbers. He needed to figure out how long to warm it for. Despite whatever Martin said about empty stomachs, though, Jon’s was already full of knots, making it hard to concentrate on his task.

After a moment, Martin spoke again. “Would it help if I ordered you?”

Jon nodded.

“Jon, have your lunch.”

Jon relaxed and hit the  _ plus minute _ button twice.

“You two,” Tim commented. His tone was unreadable so Jon turned around, relaxing at the sight of his fond smile. Tim even laughed, adding, “What are you gonna do when we break the curse and that doesn’t work anymore?

Jon shrugged. “I’ll just do what I’ve always done.”

Martin set down his sandwich. “Jon. You’ve implied that what you’ve always done is skip meals. I’d  _ really _ recommend not going back to that.”

Jon turned back to the microwave and tapped his fingers on the counter. What else was he supposed to do? It’s not like he could ask Martin to keep telling him to have lunch, without the curse to enforce it. If Tim and Martin just wanted Jon to continue eating lunch regularly, they’d be better off keeping him cursed. They…

They wouldn’t want him to stay cursed, right? Martin definitely wouldn’t, he was probably quite sick of escorting Jon on all his commutes and errands. But Tim hadn’t been inconvenienced like that… And he’d just laughed, and if he thought Jon’s curse was entertaining…

Jon jumped at the beep of the microwave. He carefully retrieved his food, and as he brought it to the table, he carefully spoke. “Tim, I’m feeling paranoid. Would you mind telling me whether you actually want to break the curse?”

“Oh! Oh, of course,” Tim said, eyebrows pulled high together, surprise or bewilderment or concern. “I was just joking around because I’m jealous — I swear I really, genuinely, want you to be free of this bullshit.”

“Jealous…?” Jon stared at him for a second, then realized. “Oh, oh right, you have a bit of a  _ thing _ with Martin, don’t you? Well, there’s no need to worry, my relationship with him is platonic.” Well… no less platonic than his relationship with Tim, at least. Jon’s memories of the New Year’s party were fuzzy, but he didn’t think he had kissed Martin any more than he had Tim. Less, even. Although, Martin had kissed him on Christmas Eve when he’d asked, hadn’t he? Except he’d actually rejected him, and the forehead kiss had been a consolation… Yes, no, none of that marked a departure from the platonic.

Jon didn’t realize how quiet it had been until Tim broke it.

“Yep, yeah, of course, thanks for the reassurance, pal! No need to worry about me worrying though,” he laughed, “you know I’m not the exclusive type. You wouldn’t be messing anything up!”

Another moment of quiet.

“Right, yes, of course,” Jon replied, trying not to think about the  _ things _ he’d potentially be messing up or not, and how he’d be potentially doing so, and-

Martin brought his hands down on the table with a soft thump. “Anyway, let’s eat! Don’t forget, we have a statement to record!”

Jon was slightly surprised to realize that he  _ had, _ in fact, forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> Not much this week, just a bit of sensory overload / social exhaustion, and a bit of canon-typical "people taking their bad moods out on each other."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a statement!!!
> 
> it's a bit of a rough time for op, so maybe check the warnings. The statement is the two large italicized sections at the beginning and ends with "statement ends", so you can just skip the whole beginning of the chapter and go to there, if you'd like. and the characters summarize enough in their conversations that you shouldn't miss anything important !

Jon sat behind his desk, statement clutched in both hands. Tim had wheeled his own chair into Jon’s office, so Martin took the statement-giver’s chair across from Jon. For a moment, they all just looked at each other.

Then the tape recorder clicked and whirred, and Jon started speaking.

_ Statement of Simeon Chanterel, regarding a book that made him listen to everyone. _

_ Original Statement given April 8th, 2005. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. _

_ Statement Begins. _

_ I found the book at an office supply store. It seemed kind of out of place? I would’ve expected maybe some business advice books, or those little inspirational quote spiral-bounds, but this thing didn’t seem related to office supplies at all. _

_ I brought it to a clerk to ask, in case they did stock this stuff somewhere and this one had just been misplaced, but when I told her the title and she looked it up, she said it wasn’t in their system at all. She gave it a quick once-over and said it didn’t have their sticker, and, like I thought, wasn’t the kind of thing they carried. Eventually she just shrugged and said I could keep it, if I wanted. And usually tacky self-help books aren’t my thing, y’know? But I did want to keep this one. So when she got another glance at the cover and actually read the title for herself, and said, maybe she should look through it first, I told her I was in a hurry, and left. Didn’t even buy the stuff in my cart, just left, and she didn’t stop me. _

_ I sure wish she had, though. I used to think I was the kind of nice person who wouldn’t wish my own suffering onto someone else just to free myself from it, but. Lmao. _

_ I started reading as soon as I left the store. I kept reading until I finished it. _

_ The first couple times I listened to someone, I didn’t really notice what I was doing. Like, my roommate told me to do the damn dishes already and I just did, without complaining. Little things, weird but not too weird, right? _

_ But then I went to work. _

_ A customer told me to ignore the expiration date on his coupon, so I did. It was a buy one get one so I just threw the second pair in without ringing it up, like I would if the coupon was valid but just wouldn’t scan, y’know? Which, okay, fine, sometimes you decide you’d rather put up with your boss than the customer, or just that you fucking hate the store that day, and you throw someone a bone. But then it kept happening. _

The statement continued, describing a full day of-  _ that. _ Simeon checked the back over and over for products he knew they didn’t carry. He refunded a used purchase out of his own wallet. He tried to leave his shift, but the manager stopped him, only to kick him out and suspend him when he let a customer use the employee bathroom.

He went to class, and jumped to follow every command the professor gave the class. He went back to his flat, and his roommate quickly figured out that he would do any chore asked of him, without argument. He went to the school’s mental health counselor, and then a psychiatrist, and no amount of discussion or medicine had any effect.

He quit his job. He lost his flat.

Jon was horrified.

Of course, all the true statements were horrifying, so Jon wasn’t any sort of stranger to second-hand fear, but this was different. This was so different. If Jon had had a worse job, if he had had less considerate friends… even as he steadily read out the words on the page, his mind screamed with how it could have been him. Still could be him.

And the statement just kept going.

_ Being homeless sucks, y’know? People don’t treat you like a person. They’ll tell you all sorts of cruel shit, when they notice you at all. Condescend to you, insult you. And I didn’t just have to take it, I had to listen. _

_ I guess you could say I had peers, but while I resented them less, they weren’t much better to be around. They had their own problems, they weren’t about to tiptoe around my weird fucking curse. _

_ So people were terrifying, all of them. I was so fucking scared that I eventually just- stopped. _

_ I knew I was going to die eventually, right? Well, duh, right, but, I figured sooner rather than later. Someone would tell me to jump in front of a bus. Or I’d catch something and shiver and cough to death on a park bench. Or I’d give all my belongings and scraped-together cash to other people when they asked, till I just keeled over of starvation. _

_ And I was looking forward to it. I’d sit there hoping someone would just order me off a bridge and get it over with. _

_ So I started looking for people to tell me things. Like, it’s not like my life could get any worse, right? And at least when I was listening to someone, I had direction, a sense of purpose, something to look forward to. So I went to people instead of avoiding them, doing whatever the fuck it took to get that little hit of happiness. I just wasn’t scared anymore. _

_ And then one day someone told me to move and I didn’t listen. _

_ I was actually kinda comfortable, where I was. I was comfortable and tired and I didn’t wanna fucking move, so I figured I’d give myself a moment, till the urge to listen got so strong I couldn’t resist. _

_ But it never did. _

_ They told me again to move, and I told them to fuck off, and after a bit of complaining they left. _

_ To be honest, the curse might’ve broken before that? I was so used to listening, I usually never bothered trying to resist, so for all I know, that was days after I was actually freed. But that’s when I noticed. _

_ Once I had tested it, once I was sure I was free, I called my family on a pay phone. I hadn’t talked to them once since it all started, so they were really, really relieved to hear from me. Upset, too — I got so yelled at, till the payphone cut off — but my dad still took the train to come get me. _

_ I told them I’d had a breakdown from the stress of college. I figured it was true enough, like, even if I hadn’t had any mental health problems before, I definitely did after all that. So my sister grudgingly gave me my room back, and I found a job with absolutely no customer service, and eventually I made it through the waiting list and went to therapy. _

_ I’m back in college now, even. It’s like that half a year was some kind of fucked up nightmare. Like, it’s crazy, right? It couldn’t be real. But it was, I was cursed for six goddamn months because of a fucking book at the office supply store, and then I wasn’t anymore. _

_ I don’t know where it is now. I left all my junk in my flat for my roommate to throw out, when I first got kicked out, because why not. I don’t know if he did trash it, or if he read it, or what. I’m never going to check. _

_ Statement ends. _

The tape recorder clicked off, and it was quiet for a bit, in Jon’s office.

“Well,” Tim finally said, in the tone of a joke, “I’m sure glad you didn’t have a second job working retail!”

No one laughed, but it was something, at least. Jon hadn’t been about to break the silence, and he doubted Martin would have either; he’d been looking vaguely sick through most of the statement, face ashy and a very particular kind of blank.

Jon realized that Tim’s attempt at conversation would only work if someone took him up on it, and scrounged up a belated reply. “Yes. I’ve definitely dodged a couple of bullets. So far.”

Martin spoke, then, voice a little shaky. “Not just so far — never. We’ll make sure you  _ never _ have to go through anything like that. Worst comes to worst, you’ve got us, okay?”

“And the curse broke!” Tim added. “In this statement the curse broke. So it’s not even going to be the worst, we’re going to fix this. We’ll figure this out!”

Jon didn’t want to believe in a false hope, but god, he didn’t think he could afford not to believe, either. Maybe they  _ could _ get somewhere, finally, now that they had another piece.

“I suppose we’d better get started on the follow up, then,” he said.

* * *

Saturday night, Jon made dinner for the others, at his flat. Afterwards, they laid out everything they’d learned so far. It wasn’t much.

Martin had confirmed that Simeon’s career and university records lined up with the statement. He’d also found Simeon’s contact information, but when Tim called, Simeon had been adamant that he wasn’t interested in discussing the most traumatic experience of his life. They also looked into his roommate, but couldn’t find anything more recent than his early college years. He likely hadn’t managed to throw the book out, then.

“So,” Tim eventually concluded, “not a lot to go on. Just the statement.”

“And the statement isn’t exactly a clear answer” Jon added, rubbing his fingers against the grain of the couch. “He was miserable, he wanted to die, and then the curse just broke. What do we learn from that?”

Tim frowned. “Well, we’re definitely not going to try to make you suicidal, so replicating Simeon’s whole experience is a no-go. But if we break it down more, maybe we’ll find the important bit that we  _ should _ be replicating?”

Martin leaned forward. “He said he’d been terrified and avoiding people, but then, when he got suicidal, he started seeking people out instead. He decided that, since everything was bad no matter what, he might as well lean into the curse and get the ‘hit of happiness’ from following directions.”

“He made it to rock bottom and had nowhere to go but up,” Tim summarized. “Kind of makes sense, but again, we’re not doing that to Jon.”

“No, no, of course not,” Martin agreed, and Jon felt a bit embarrassed at how relieved he was to hear it, every time. “I’m thinking… because of the rock bottom, he wasn’t scared of anything getting worse, so he wasn’t scared of being ordered anymore?”

Jon perked up, hands now tapping at the cushion instead. “These things  _ are _ all about fear! Perhaps, since he was no longer feeding fear to the book, it let him go?”

Martin nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, exactly, that’s exactly what I meant!”

“So you just have to not be scared! You could try…” Tim tapped his chin in thought. “Meditating?”

Jon snorted at that. “Yes, of course. We just read a whole statement about how horrifying this curse is, now let’s simply meditate that knowledge away. It’s-”

He broke off, suddenly self-conscious, but Tim and Martin both just looked to him patiently, so he took a moment to find the words and continue. “It’s terrifying, knowing I can’t control myself. Anyone could say just the wrong thing and accidentally ruin my life, anyone who knew about my predicament could do even worse on purpose, and then there’s creatures like Prentiss and Michael and everyone else we've heard about in these statements, who are dangerous enough on their own, but when you add the curse too? Who knows what they could do to me, or make me do! It’s terrifying.

“I just… I don’t know if it’s possible. To not be scared. The only thing that helps at all is…” Jon hesitated, and then pushed ahead. “The only thing that helps is knowing you two are here.”

“We’ll keep being here!” Tim replied. “We’ve got your back, Boss, okay?” He shifted in Jon’s old armchair, like he was going to change position or perhaps get up, but he ended up just bouncing his leg.

“Of course,” Martin added. “We’ll keep working on this, okay? We’ll just do our best, and then if you let us know when you find things that do make you feel better, we’ll focus on those. In fact, maybe you could take some vacation days? Less interactions to potentially go wrong, less need for countermanding, and, honestly, less statements to put you on edge. Get a little self-care time?”

Jon started shaking his head before Martin had finished talking. “The last thing I need is time to dwell on everything. Commuting to work and everything, it’s fine, with you to protect me. I’d rather be at the Institute than home alone. And,” he continued, preempting what he assumed would be their next suggestion, “I refuse to leave the Archives understaffed, so we can’t all call out. I don’t think anything bad will happen immediately, I just… I’m so scared of what will eventually happen, once you have to get back to your normal lives. I know we can’t continue like this forever.”

“Why not?” Tim asked. “Like obviously it’s not ideal for you to be cursed forever, but if you are? We’re not going to just leave you to suffer. Maybe we won’t be able to do this exactly, but when we get to that point, we’ll find a new solution.”

Martin nodded. “This  _ is _ a really, just, very scary situation, and it makes sense that you’re scared, and it’s okay if you can’t just make yourself stop. But the one thing you don’t have to be scared of is being left alone. We’re here for you, Jon. As long as you need, no matter how long that is.”

As long as he needed them. A wonderful reassurance, but with its own sort of terror: what would happen when he  _ stopped _ needing them? How was he supposed to break the curse when doing so was its own sort of frightening? He knew he had to do it, because he was horribly vulnerable on his own. He wanted to do it! But sitting here with Tim and Martin, even discussing such difficult subjects, he felt safer than he had in a long, long time. He didn’t want to lose that.

Jon realized he should respond. He looked down at his hands where they were curled tight in his lap, and nodded.

No one said anything else in reply. After a moment, Martin reached out and took one of Jon’s hands, smoothing out the fingers and fitting his own inbetween. Then the couch dipped on Jon’s other side, and Tim followed suit, holding Jon’s other hand.

Jon held on tight. He didn’t want to lose this.

* * *

Jon tried not to be scared.

The three of them ventured into the tunnels again on Monday — after work hours, this time, so they could really explore. It was admittedly unlikely that they’d find anything else about the book, but between that small chance and the chance of finding information on Gertrude’s murderer, they’d decided it was worth trying. Martin had suggested it might help Jon’s paranoia to come at her case from a different angle, and Tim had pointed out that if the curse fed on fear, it may be able to feed on this unrelated fear of Jon’s as well, so solving that would help. As if Jon hadn’t been trying to solve it for months.

He still appreciated their help, though, despite their obvious comparative lack of concern for the murder itself.

They’d been walking for twenty minutes when a voice called, “Tim? Is that you?”

Tim turned sharply, Martin froze, and Jon flicked out his light. Pointless if only one of them did it, so Jon started trying to catch Tim’s attention to sign to him to follow suit.

Before he could, another light appeared around a corner.

The figure behind it was tall. A silhouette Jon didn’t recognize.

Tim brandished his torch in its direction, paused, and said, “Oh! Sash! You just about gave me a heart attack!”

Oh. It  _ was _ Sasha.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she replied. “I just went back down to the Archives because I’d forgotten my scarf, and I saw the trap door was open, so I figured I’d make sure everything was alright. I did  _ not _ expect to find all three of you down here. Jon sure, but you, Tim? And Martin, you were dragged in as well? I suppose there’s a certain safety in numbers, but I would have expected you to keep the others out of this sort of trouble in the first place.”

Martin shuffled in place a bit but didn’t reply. Jon shifted his torch from one hand to the other, turning it back and forth. 

Sasha sighed. “No matter. There’s really no reason to be wandering around down here, especially after dark, so let’s go. You boys will have to find an adventure somewhere else. Oh, and Jon, turn your torch back on.”

Jon fumbled to hit the switch as quickly as he could. He nearly dropped the torch in the process, which sent his heart racing, but then he got it right and the light turned on and he was able to relax into the warmth of success.

“Sasha,” Tim hissed, “the curse!”

“Oops!” she exclaimed, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I’d absolutely forgotten! How about… Jon, I  _ suggest _ you turn your torch back on?”

“Too late now,” Martin replied, voice flat, “but yes, that would have been better, Sasha.”

They headed back to the archives, Sasha in the lead, Martin and Tim close on either side of Jon.

Jon tried not to resent Sasha for forgetting, and he tried not to dwell on how tall she’d seemed, in the torchlight. He was  _ trusting _ his friends, now.

* * *

They stayed away from the tunnels for the next couple days, just in case.

Jon could tell Martin didn’t really want to go back at all, and while Tim wasn’t bothered that Sasha had found them, he  _ was _ bothered by the moment before they knew it was her. But Jon said he wanted to keep looking, so the others agreed. Just, later.

Jon knew he was asking for too much. Jon was always asking for too much, and even when he knew it, he could never stop himself from pushing. At once too intense and too aloof, too curious, too cold. Scared of all the wrong things.

Tim had started catching his posture as well, with permission. And every time, it felt like Tim was telling him that he cared. That he wanted Jon to be comfortable and safe.

Jon was so comfortable and safe that it frightened him. Careful wording, gentle commands, half-remembered kisses… Jon tried not to think about any of it, but still, he ached.

* * *

They went back to the tunnels on Thursday, leaving Tim at the entrance as a guard. He complained, of course, but Martin promised he’d guard the next time, and he did. Jon never had to stay behind; he wouldn’t be of much use with his curse.

Over the following week, they found the remains of a book that Gertrude had bought, as well as something more surprising: signs that someone was living down there. Wrappers, bottles, hidden but not well enough.

The murderer.

Or possibly not, but truly, what were the chances? Jon knew he wasn’t just being paranoid this time, and the others agreed. It was a likely possibility, at the very least. They decided to wait until Basira came by again, to ask for her help.

She visited the very next week, and Jon did not get a chance to ask.

She gave a horrifying statement, said she was quitting the force.

Said, “And you should too.”

Basira’s face was lined with worry and terror. She seemed too exhausted to be frantic, but there was still a sort of desperate energy to her voice as she said, “This place… It’s not right. Quit, Jon, before it’s too late.”

Jon ushered Basira out as quickly as he could. For a moment, while the door was open behind her, he wanted to call out to Martin — but if he told the others that he needed to quit, they would stop him, and then it would be too late, wouldn’t it? And he was supposed to quit  _ before _ it was too late. So he kept quiet. In the back of his mind he worried about how much harder it was getting to reach out for help, but he wouldn’t need their help so much if he quit, would he? He wouldn’t continue asking for it, at least. So he woke up his laptop, opened a new email, and addressed it to Elias Bouchard.

And then he froze.

He was supposed to quit, but his fingers wouldn’t type the words. He’d never had all that much email anxiety, greatly preferring written communication to in-person meetings or phone calls, and yet, he couldn’t make himself write the email.

He still had to quit, though, so he closed his laptop, resigned himself to the awkwardness of resigning face-to-face, and strode out of his office.

He was halfway up the stairs by the time Martin caught up enough to shout, “Stop!”

Jon stopped.

“Come back down here and tell me what you were trying to do,” Martin continued, at a more reasonable volume now that he had Jon’s attention.

Jon turned and made his way back to Martin, nearly dizzy with the ease of it. The relief of doing as he was told, after that terrifying moment of staring at his screen in absolute inability.

“Quit,” he answered, once he was at a conversational distance. “Basira told me this place isn’t right, told me to quit. I meant to write an email to Elias, but I couldn’t, so I was going to go to his office. But it felt…” Jon shuddered at the memory. “I was sitting there at my computer and I had to tell Elias I was quitting but I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I had to. Martin, I was trying, but I couldn’t, I-”

“Woah, woah, it’s okay,” Martin interrupted, taking a step closer, hands hovering between them. “You don’t have to quit, you don’t have to do anything in particular right now. You’re doing fine. I’ve got you, it’s fine. Let’s get back to the office for a second, okay?”

Jon nodded, shaky, and Martin led him back to the Archives, where Tim was waiting at the door with furrowed brows. They’d both followed Jon out. He hadn’t noticed.

Tim walked with them to the breakroom, and sat on the couch next to Jon while Martin made tea. He counted breaths, steady and soothing, and eventually Jon found himself able to breathe along.

“Did the cop give you any other orders?” Tim asked quietly.

Jon shook his head and signed none. Tim nodded and sat back, though he didn’t sprawl across the couch like he normally would.

Martin dragged the little lunch table over, along with a chair for himself, and then set out everyone’s tea.

He took a sip from his own mug, a sunny yellow thing with flowers, and said, “So. When you told me that you couldn’t quit, what did you mean?”

Jon thought back, trying to recall the exact feeling, sorting specifics out of the tangle of desperation. “It was similar to these orders, I suppose. But more direct, since it didn’t seem to change what I  _ wanted _ to do?”

“I was thinking about how I needed to quit,” he continued, “and what would be the most efficient way to do so, since she’d said ‘before it’s too late.’ But when I tried to type the words, I didn’t. I wasn’t physically stopped, I don’t think, I just… couldn’t make myself move. Like when your phone is on one percent, and you know you need to just reach for the cord and plug it in, but you don’t. I knew I needed to quit, but I didn’t.”

“And no one’s told you not to quit?” Tim asked.

Jon shook his head. “The new command should have overridden it, even if someone had.”

Martin groaned. “If you’ve managed to pick up another compulsion curse… That is the  _ last _ thing you need.”

“Um,” Tim said, without his usual confidence, “it might not just be him?”

“What?” Jon asked, surprised, while Martin hummed in question.

“I’ve thought about quitting,” Tim explained. “Back when Jon was still stalking everyone, right after the worms? I’d sit and think about it, and I wouldn’t. I thought it was just some sort of, subconscious hope or loyalty that was stopping me, something like that. But…”

No one said anything for a moment.

“Yeah,” Tim said, like they had, and Jon supposed they might as well have. “Jon, you have the authority to like, accept my resignation, right?”

“Yes,” Jon answered.

Another pause.

“Well, can’t tell you I’m quitting.”

Jon frowned. “There’s more than one way to lose a job, and I also have the authority to fire you.”

_ So I’m firing you, right now, _ he’d meant to say. But the words didn’t come out. He was supposed to be firing Tim and he couldn’t. He wasn’t doing what he was supposed to, he tried to try and he couldn’t, he couldn’t-

“Hey hey hey, Jon, you’re fine,” Tim was saying.

“Jon, you should try to breathe, okay?” Martin followed up.

Jon couldn’t. He couldn’t. He struggled to hold onto a gasp long enough to say so, but it felt like ages till he managed to choke out, “T- tell me, to.”

“Jon, breathe with me for a bit,” Martin commanded.

Jon did. The panic slowly faded.

“Are you okay?” Tim asked. “What was that, I, I didn’t  _ order _ you to fire me, right?”

Jon thought back. Tim  _ hadn’t, _ right? But then that meant- either it was this other curse, or the book’s was getting stronger, or, it was just- it was just-

“You didn’t,” Martin confirmed. “It’s alright, firing Tim just won’t work, and that’s no one’s fault. Though it  _ is _ concerning.”

Tim gave Jon one last worried look, then shook his head, back to cheerful. “Yep, looks like we can’t lose our jobs! Or at least, I’m assuming that’s all of us?”

Martin opened his mouth. Closed it. Said, “Yeah, no, I can’t either.”

“Wow,” Tim replied, “the cop was right, fuck this place! You know, I hadn’t even wanted to quit anymore? But now I fucking do! This is fucked!” He dragged a hand down his face. “God. This sucks. All this shit. But I guess for now we just… fix Jon’s curse, and then deal with the rest of the bullshit later.”

Jon shot him a flat look. “Right. Just fix my curse. So simple.”

“Yep! We’re gonna do it, piece of cake! We just need a new strategy. Talk about it again this weekend? My place?”

Jon blinked and looked away, down to where one of his hands started to trace along the other. “Oh. Sure, of course.”

“Awesome!” Tim replied, and Jon smiled, tracing soft circles around the spot on his left wrist.

“I’ll read over the statement again for now,” Martin offered, “look for any other clues.”

“Oh, I had it last, I’ll get it for ya!” Tim was up in a second, sauntering back out to the main office.

Jon tilted to the side a bit, into the dip in the cushion left by Tim. Watching his energy, it was harder to ignore Jon’s own exhaustion.

The couch suddenly dipped further and Jon startled, opening eyes he hadn't realized he had closed. Martin had joined him. As Jon watched, he casually stretched an arm along the back of the couch: an invitation. Jon hesitated, thoughts threatening to spiral, to read into it, to calculate every what-if — but he was tired. So he just let himself lean into it and close his eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> Nonconsensual order following: Lots of it in the statement. Retail customers and other strangers give some commands on accident, and a roommate gives a couple on purpose.
> 
> Dehumanization/abuse: The statement giver is homeless for a time, and mentions being treated poorly, though without much detail.
> 
> Suicidal ideation: The statement giver lists a couple of specific death wishes, and the fact that he was suicidal is mentioned later in the chapter.
> 
> don't worry though the statement giver is ok in the end and gets therapy and everything!!
> 
> Nonconsensual order following, again: Someone who knows about the curse gives Jon a small order without permission. Someone who doesn't know about the curse gives Jon a larger order without permission, and he panics when he's unable to fulfill it.
> 
> Panic: Jon freaks out when he can't do things he's supposed to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated, no matter how short or long!!


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